


Lokabrenna

by rosweldrmr



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Comic & Movie Fusion, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Jane Foster, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Infinity Gems, Magic and Science, Mighty Lokane, Stranded, Thor!Jane Foster, Uneasy Allies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9366011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosweldrmr/pseuds/rosweldrmr
Summary: If she can play her cards just right, if Thanos doesn’t destroy them all first, and if she can just convince Loki to cooperate long enough and not get them both killed - there might just be a way out of this. A way to set everything right. There’s only one catch: Jane is going to have to marry Loki. | Or the one where Thanos forces Jane and Loki to get married and strands them on an abandoned world where they're going to have to learn to get along and trust each other if they have any hope of saving the universe. | (MCU post Civil War) Slowish burn





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LMPandora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMPandora/gifts).



> I love Lokane. I also love adventure/stranded/survival fics, and arranged marriage fics. It seemed about time I put them all together. I also love Miya, so I am so happy to be able to give this to her as part of the 2016 Lokane Gift Exchange. 
> 
> Thank you so much to my beautiful beta Ivy, I handed her this monster and asked her to beta it in like two days. She is so patient and kind and lovely. Also thank you to Imogen74/poetattemptsfiction for organizing this exchange. The annual Lokane exchange is one of the things I most look forward to every year. Thank you!
> 
> Below is a map of Asgard you can use as reference while reading this fic. I made the map with help of [this site](http://fantasynamegenerators.com/map-creator.php).
> 
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> 

  
   
   
   
   
   


Lokabrenna — “Loki’s burning; the conflagration of Loki,” referring to the end of the world. Also refers to the brightest star in the night sky.[1]

* * *

 

“How insignificant you are,” Thanos mocks. And to his credit, Thor does not waver. Even when bound and forced to kneel before the Titan in the rubble of what was once the Asgardian throne room, he is still a warrior.

“This isn’t over. As long as I draw breath, I _will_ fight you,” Thor declares and Jane has to bite down on her lip to keep from crying.

“Of that I have no doubt, little prince. Which is why the time has come--”

“No!” Jane shouts and takes a step forward; her shackles halt her progress, but she pulls against her chains. “No, please.”

“You have a fine woman, prince. Worthy of the epics your people so cherish. Pity there are none left to sing of her sacrifice this day.”

Thanos lifts gauntlet-clad hands, and for Jane, the world seems to stop. She knows what comes next. She’s seen him wield the collection of stones with indiscriminate cruelty enough over the past few days to know what that gesture means. He’s going to kill her. Or, more likely, he’s going to wipe her out of existence entirely, make it as if she’d never been born.

And there is a strange moment where Jane feels like she exists outside of herself. She can see her parents when they first meet. Their first kiss. Their wedding day. She sees them grow old together, hand in hand. There is no car accident to take their life. No fifth grade science fair to get to on that cold and rainy February afternoon. And in some small way, that is a consolation. To know that without her, they will live on.

Then the moment is gone. And Thanos is still standing there, ready to erase Jane Foster from this reality. But something feels wrong. Why hasn’t it happened yet? What’s he waiting for?

After a few more seconds, she manages a breath, just to reassure herself that she’s still here.

Then his unnatural red eyes slip from her face, back to Thor. And Jane can only watch as Thor is eviscerated, skinned, and engulfed in blue flames so hot, they turn the steps of the throne into molten rock.

She is too stunned to say anything, to do anything. He barely had time to scream in pain before he was set to ashes. All she can do is stare blankly.[2] These is no time for anything else.

And just like that, Thor is gone. The only thing that remains of him is the charred handle of Mjølnir that juts out from the fiery pool of stone. As the floor cools, it encases the hammer, burying what’s left of Thor in the only funeral he will be honored with.

“You monster!” Jane finally bellows, thrashing against her chains, cutting her wrists and nearly yanking her shoulder from its socket.

“Curious,” is all Thanos says when he finally looks at her again. He clenches the gauntlet into a fist, and this time Jane is too hysterical to even care that she’s about to die. But, just as before, nothing happens. No disembowelment, no filaying, no spontaneous combustion… nothing. Thanos lifts the golden glove to his eye level and turns his hand. Each gem catching the light of the Asgardian sun and winking in turn.

And Jane can almost swear she feels a tug in her gut at the sight of the red gem of reality. The stone, in its aether form, that had inhabited her body for nearly a week. She remembered the power of it, the way it moved in her veins, the way it crawled into the empty cavity of her chest and filled her to the brim. She wishes she’d used it then, when it was calling to her, begging to be wielded. She should have lifted her hand, spread wide her fingers, and commanded Thanos to _disappear_.

But she hadn’t known then what was in store for her. For all of them. The gem of time came too late for them. Too late to save them. Too late…

“Human,” Thanos calls and there is little question of who he means. She was the only human left on Asgard. “Why does the gem fight me? Who are you that it should show such loyalty?”

Jane honestly doesn’t know what to say to that, so she just shrugs.

“Speak!” Thanos commands, and Jane feels herself compelled to respond.

“Because it’s a part of me,” she answers, and is surprised to find that it’s true. During its time in her possession something had happened. Almost like it had fused with her. Even Odin wasn’t sure how it was possible; at least, that’s what he’d said at the time, how a lowly mortal could withstand the power of the gem for so long. When it had taken whole collectives of people to handle just one stone in the past.

“Hm,” Thanos says, thoughtfully. As if it were something to be pondered. “I may have a use for you yet, woman.” Then he turns from regarding her and speaks to one of the Chitauri that stands century by his ship, where it sits among the wreckage. “Bring the prisoner!” he shouts and Jane’s heart sinks.

Of all the people in the universe, he is the last person she wants to see. And the fact that he’s managed to survive, to outlive even Thor now, is heinous. Whatever Thanos has in mind for him, Jane worries it won’t be painful enough. Not for being the one responsible for bringing Thanos into their lives. Not for betraying his home and family. This all started with him. With his grotesque desire for power and attention, she thinks as she watches him carted from the ship.

Muzzled and handcuffed, Thanos marches him naked through the ruins. Stripped of his armor and weapons, he is little more than a man. A poor excuse for one, she thinks. And he looks so small now, cowed and silent. It isn’t until he’s nearly beside her that she realizes his lips have been sewn shut under his muzzle[3]. He is utterly defeated.

“Ah, there he is. My most loyal subject. Do you not wish to congratulate your master on his success? Do you not revel in the destruction of this paltry world? This is what you asked for, to see Asgard on its knees. Was it not?”

Unable to stop herself, Jane looks over and is surprised to find the same raw hatred reflected in his eyes as she’s sure is in her own. And just like that, she sees a glimmer of hope in their future.

If she can play her cards _just_ right, if Thanos doesn’t destroy them all first, and if she can just convince Loki to cooperate long enough and not get them both killed - there might just be a way out of this. A way to set everything right.

There’s only one catch: Jane is going to have to marry Loki.

“And as a gift to you, Loki of Asgard, I present you this world you so coveted. Yours to rule as you wish.” Thanos laughs, and Jane can see the horror etched in Loki’s pale expression. He’d always wanted Asgard; she knew that. But she sees now that this is not the dream he had. He wanted to rule. To be adored. He wanted _to be_ Thor. Loved and respected. This is a punishment, for what she’s not sure; maybe New York. But there is no doubt about it. Thanos means to reprove Loki.

“Is he to rule alone?” Jane asks and Loki turns to look at her so quickly his hair falls to cover half his face.

He may not be able to speak but he might as well be yelling his question: What are you doing?

“If he is such a loyal servant, shouldn't he be given a companion to rule this world with?” She reiterates and Loki is staring daggers at her out of the corner of her eye.

“Who would you suggest, small one? Certainly you are not volunteering yourself for the task.” He eyes her suspiciously.

“As far as I'm concerned, he's no better than you,” she lies. “I want nothing more than to see him tortured for the rest of his life. And what better punishment for a God than to bind him to one of the mortals he tried so hard to destroy? And you know how much he hated Thor. Having to marry his brother’s lover would serve as a constant reminder that he will always be second best. I can think of no better spoil of war than myself.” She delivers her careful speech and watches Thanos deliberate.

“And you would doom yourself to marry a man you profess to hate, just to see him punished?”

“I would light myself on fire if it meant I got to watch him burn.”[3.5]

“Well, well. You are an interesting one. I see now why the gem favors you. Very well, mortal of Earth. I will grant you both this stay of execution, if only to watch you suffer.” He waves his hand and there is a tingle at the base of Jane's skull.

Something impossible is about to happen.

\--

There is a searing pain in Loki’s face, around his mouth, for a split second. And then his lips part for the first time since Thanos took the gauntlet. The ties that held his mouth shut are gone. And in his desperate relief, he misses the other changes at first.

But one look at the woman next to him and he remembers what she's just doomed him to. Gone are her tattered prisoner clothes and shackles. Instead she stands tall in a royal wedding gown. Her hair is trussed up, adorned with flowers, just as his mother used to wear hers. The only thing to spoil the illusion are the golden manacles.

This is a mockery.

This woman hates him so much she would destroy herself just to bring him pain. He realizes he never gave her much thought in the past. Even when she contained the aether he so desperately wanted. She was only ever a means to an end. Temporary, as all mortals are.

But now that she stands beside him, poised to be his bride, he is forced to reconsider. Perhaps she'd always been more of a danger than he thought. She certainly knew how best to wound him.

He finds himself garbed in the same ceremonial robes of Asgard. And he doesn’t know how Thanos knows the royal wedding customs of the Aesir, but somehow he turns it into a weapon. Everything is wrong. While Thanos had unsewn his lips, he finds his hands are still cuffed. Shackled in the finest gold chains he’s ever seen. Debris of the once highest realm now litter as far as the eye can see. And beyond the toppled spires of the city, the rainbow bridge is cleaved in two, half sunken beneath the dark waters at the end of the world.

There are no citizens to watch this wedding. No feast prepared for after. No mother to wish him well. And almost as if to add insult to injury, Loki finds that Thanos has chosen red and gold for his robes. His brother’s colors.

Where is Thor now, Loki wonders. Certainly dead; there was no way his paramore would agree to such a piteous fate if he were still alive.

Still distracted with thoughts of absent family, Loki almost misses the way the woman next to him clenches her fists in the delicate lace of her dress. He wonders if she regrets her choice yet.

“Servants!” Thanos proclaims as the chittering creatures fall to their knees around them. And despite his reluctance, Loki can feel his will bend to that of the stones in Thanos’ control. He finds himself on his knees too, at the steps of the dais. His father’s throne has been sliced through. Thanos rests his gloved-hand on the back of what’s left of what was once the highest seat in all the lands.

“Let all those present bear witness to this union. May it be blessed by the Lady Death. May it bring pain and ruin and last until I am once again reunited with my love.”

At his words, Loki can no longer tolerate it: this disgrace of a ceremony, devoid of life, not an Asgardian in sight - it's too much. He has to look away. Only then does he see the sword that hangs at his side. And his throat closes up at the sight. The groom’s sword, that of his ancestors, is as black as pitch and cold to the touch. Thanos’ way of reminding him that he is of Jotunheim.

Above them, Thanos waits. He seems content to let Loki lead his bride in the ceremony[4].

He pulls his sword from the loop of leather that holds it and presents it to her, hilt first. A gesture made difficult by his chains, but he manages. The cold blade rests on his palm. “Take it,” he instructs.

She does, both hands holding the hilt to keep it from touching the ground.

“Now you give me yours,” he tells her. At which point her head swivels to check her own hip. She seems surprised to find a sword there.

She seems to struggle for a moment with how best to hold his sword and retrieve her own while still bound. But she finally manages to hold his in one hand and yank hers out of its holster with the other; her shackles clatter loudly in the silence. Typically there would have been attendants to receive the symbolic gifts and tuck them away for safekeeping; not to mention typical marriages required no cuffs.

She holds her sword out to him, hilt first, as he had done. But without supporting the blade and trying to maneuver around her chains, she has to hold it in such a way that he cannot take possession of it without touching the bare skin of her hand in some way, and it bothers him. He does not wish to touch any part of her; she should know that. She should be more cognizant of it. He cannot understand her ignorance. Is it a ruse? Is it a ploy of some kind? A way to exert dominance over him, to have him touch her? Though he was guilty of underestimating her in the past, he doesn’t feel like that now. Perhaps she just doesn’t care?

Steeling himself, he receives her wedding gift as gracefully as he is able, given her awkward offerance. Loki knows that next should come the exchange of rings and vows but Thanos seems to be impatient. Two Chitauri appear beside them, divesting them of their swords and Thanos speaks again.

“I, Thanos, rule of all, bind you. Speak your names and let this wedded rite be ended.”

Next to him, he watches the woman heave a great, shuddering breath before she speaks. “Jane Foster.” Her hands are once again clenched in fists around her gown.

And it occurs to him he hadn't known her name. He'd never bothered to learn it. But now that he hears it, he can recall a faraway echo of his brother’s voice bellowing it on a distant, dead world. But there is no Thor to save her now. Not when he follows the line of her eyes to just beside where they stand and Loki recognizes the proud handle of Thor’s most treasured possession.

Mjølnir lies beneath their very feet.

When he opens his mouth to speak his name, all he can manage is a strangled sob. He is standing in his brother's ashes.

Beside him, the woman, Jane, relinquishes the death grip she has on her dress and reaches out to him. He knows only because he can hear the sound of her chains rattling. She does not touch him, for which he is oddly thankful. She only tugs slightly on the hem of his sleeve, just behind his own manacles.

And even if he is a shadow of his former self, he is still a God. And he will not allow himself to be comforted by his brother’s widow as they are bound in this unholy matrimony. Steeling himself to the reality of standing on his brother's grave, he swallows down the disgust he feels and forces himself to speak. “Loki, Prince of Asgard.”

“King,” she chirps. And there is a moment where he's not sure to what she's referring.

But when it comes to him, a fresh wave of nausea sweeps over him. “King of Asgard,” he corrects himself and Thanos’ smile sends shivers down his spine.

“I see I have chosen wisely, little Loki. This woman will make you a fine Queen,” he chuckles and beside him she shifts as if the praise of a raving lunatic unsettles her. And her discomfort is of some consolation. Though she may have led him to this slaughter, she is not without injury.

He sees now the truth of her words earlier. How they will burn together. Trapped in this ceaseless torment.

At least he's not alone.

\--

Jane is unfamiliar with the customs of Asgard, but she assumes the table that appears before them would have seated an entire court it is so large. But it's empty now. The last of the Asgardians are a pile of ashes at her feet.

And she can feel something heavy sitting on her head. A crown, she realizes, looking at Loki. She assumes he wears a matching coronet, made of gold and simply decorated with carved runes she can’t read.

She doesn't remember much about ancient Norse mythology, or how closely it correlates to modern Asgardian lore. But she hopes there is a better hereafter for Thor. Gilded halls and a welcome home to his family and friends. Reunited and honored as the hero she knows him to be.

Next to her, Loki seems to fall deeper into despair the farther they progress in the marriage ritual. Thanos’ comments about her as queen seem to particularly upset him. And she knows why. She knows whose face he pictures when he thinks of the Queen. Sadly, it's the same face Jane does.

“A feast in honor of the new King and Queen of Asgard!” Thanos announces to the legion of Chitauri who skitter around the ruins, darting from pockets of light and shadow like ghouls.

Jane quickly realizes there is no feast. There is only one golden cloche and two chalices on the entire table. Neither she or Loki move to sit.

“Come now, do you not wish to eat?” Thanos asks and Jane already knows she's not going to like whatever it is.

“After you,” Jane says and gestures as the only two chairs around the table.

“It is customary for bride and groom to sit together,” Loki instructs. And Jane can't help but think it pains him to do so. So why do it, she wonders. Why not just sit first, take what little power he can? It feels like a strange gesture for him, as someone who craved power above all else, to relinquish what little he could have taken, for the sake of custom.

“I see,” Jane says evenly and does as instructed. “It symbolizes unity, doesn't it?” she asks as they sit in unison. Though she has a feeling he's supposed to hold her hand as they sit, he doesn't. And that, at least, feels a little more like what she expects from him.

“It does,” Loki answers, measured and cool, never taking his eyes off Thanos as they sit.

“Thor told me once that on Asgard, Kings and Queens were viewed as equals. Frigga was just as much a ruler as Odin was.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, as if in pain. And she thinks she sees some recognition in his expression. As if he thinks she wanted to hurt him. And she knew no better weapon than the names of his family, gone from this world by his deeds. She doesn’t know how to tell him otherwise, so she leaves it be. Let him think what he wants; she doesn’t owe him anything.

“As will you be, Jane Foster of Earth.” And there is something about hearing him say her name that makes her wince. It sounds wrong. She hates it. The way his lips still bear the scars of his imprisonment and Thor is still so fresh in her mind. He shouldn't be allowed to say her name.

She can see him take notice of her discomfort. She's given away a weakness, a way for him to hurt her. And she watches as he seems to file the piece of information away, for later use no doubt.

“Before you feast, is it not customary to exchange rings?” Thanos looks absolutely gleeful. “In both cultures.”

“If I had known of the happy occasion beforehand, I could have prepared something for the Lady and I,” Loki says and Jane can hear the dissent in his words.

“No need for that. I have prepared rings for you,” Thanos declares and with a wave of his hand each of them find their golden chains slither down their hands, wrapping like snakes around their fingers before shrinking and forming matching bands on their ring fingers.

To which the message could not be more clear: this marriage is your prison.

Jane stares at her hand. She feels distant. Like it's someone else's hand she's looking at. This is not how she imagined her wedding day. This is not who she pictured as her groom. Five years ago all of this would have been absurd. Marrying an alien prince as the universe was systematically destroyed by an ageless being of unimaginable power.

And for some reason, she finds herself laughing. This isn't her life. It can't be. She's a scientist. She believes in rationality. Repeatability. Logic and theories and quantifiable proof. This world of impossible things and impossible people isn't her world.

And the more she stares at her hand, at the magical gold chain that binds her, she can't help but laugh. It's too ridiculous not to. And she feels like if she doesn't laugh, she'd cry. And that would be far worse.

She needs Loki. She needs him to cooperate, to help. And the only way she can see that happening is if she can convince him that she's not as worthless as he thinks. And crying like a big baby because she didn't marry the prince she wanted to seems like the wrong move.

“Are you ill, Lady?” he asks and she laughs harder.

“No, _my Lord_ ,” she scoffs. “I'm fine. Perfect. Never better,” she trails off, her eyes catching the wink of light off her golden ring again. She was never a big fan of gold. She wonders if she can ask Thanos to give her a silver one instead. Or maybe Loki. He's a wizard too, apparently. She's halfway to asking if he wouldn’t mind changing the metal on her shackles-ring when Thanos cuts her off.

“My final gift to the wedded pair,” Thanos announces as the golden dome is lifted from the single tray on the table. Under it Jane sees a single plate. White with a gold ring. There is a knife and fork, just one set - gold, of course. And in the center of a plate sits a single golden apple.

“An apple?” she asks no one in particular. But the way Thanos presented it made it seem like it would have been much worse.

“I thought you would have destroyed them all,” Loki says next to her. And Jane is still trying to work out why the apple has to be gold too, but the edge in Loki’s voice draws her out of her musings. It’s the nearest to rage she’s heard in him yet. And she can’t help but think the apple means something to him.

“I did,” Thanos nods. “Terrible things, the golden apples of Asgard. Unnatural abominations. I made sure to rid this reality of them.” He flexes his hand, the gauntlet armor plates sliding against each other, making a grating noise that makes Jane feel like covering her ears. “But I have created this one just for you, and your blushing bride, on this your most blessed wedding day.” Thanos smiles, and his yellowed teeth make Jane glad there isn’t more to eat.

“Wouldn’t Lady Death object to the use of an apple?” Loki prods as Jane tries to work out why he’s so rattled. What do these apples do that makes him look so fearful?

“I do not see her here to protest. If she wishes to overrule my decisions she has but to appear. Convince me otherwise, Lady!” Thanos shouts to the setting sun.

And it might just be in her imagination, but Jane’s beginning to feel like Thanos is wavering in his affections of late. His mood towards the elusive Lady Death seems more mercurial than ever.

“Now, eat,” he commands as the apple splits in two. Equal halfs that rock gently with the force of their separation.

“You can’t mean her!” Loki shouts when he sees the two pieces and it takes Jane a second to realize he’s referring to her. He doesn’t want her to eat it. Which really makes no sense. If it was poison then he wouldn’t care. But he’s willing to fight Thanos; what does that mean?

\--

“It would be selfish for you to keep it all to yourself, wouldn’t it… King Loki?”

Next to him, Loki senses the woman’s confusion. His bride. His brother’s lover. This mortal. Jane Foster. He must remember her name, for he has seen the distress it causes her when he wields it. Still, he cannot bring himself to think of her by name. To do so would be to grant her more concessions than she deserves. She’s nothing more than an insect, a mortal, a _human_. Little better than the lumber beasts of the highlands. How all of this must frighten her, how small and feeble her mind must be. And yet, he feels no pity for her. This was her choice. She chose to tie herself to him in the most disdainful way imaginable. Any fear she might feel now is of her own making.

“The apples are not meant for her kind,” he insists.

“Pitiful.” Thanos shakes his head. “You think yourself better? You think the magic you possess makes you worthy? You are no better than her kind. Relying on sleight of hand and tricks. You are a child only. See now what true power is!” Thanos raises his hand, but before he can cast whatever terrible deed he wishes, the human woman shoots up from her seat.

“I will eat!” she announces and her outburst seems to leave both men momentarily speechless.

“No,” he threatens, gripping her arm with enough force that he feels her muscles flex and spasm under his fingers. Immediately he releases her. He’d forgotten how fragile mortals were, how easily they break.

“It isn’t worth it,” she challenges, her chin jutting out - the perfect picture of defiance. And it isn’t until then that it occurs to him: she still has hope. Even though she’s seen what he’s capable of, even with the ashes of her lover clinging to the hem of her wedding dress, she still thinks she can fight.

How foolish mortals are, how young.

And before he can stop her, she takes the cursed fruit in hand.

“Jane Foster,” he hisses her name and is satisfied only in the knowledge that he’d been correct before in his assessment of her. She disliked him saying her name. And it’s enough of a distraction that he is able to grab her wrist before the flesh of apple makes it to her lips. “Why are you so eager to burn?” he questions and watches her eyes closely for some hint of intention. Surely she must have some other goal than to simply ‘watch him burn’ as she had put it.

“What is it?” she asks, and for an instant Loki can almost see it, that shadow that lies beneath the waves of her mind. The secret that she holds within. The truth she tries to hide.

“An apple,” he responds, still lost in his judgement of her.

“I can see that. Why do we have to eat it? Why don’t you want me to? What’s it for?”

“Did Thor never speak of the Orchards of Asgard?” To which his new bride blinks up at him, utterly lost.

“No,” she admits and it’s only because he is so close, her wrist still caught in his grasp, that he even registers the pain in her eyes. “We didn’t talk much, actually. There always seemed to be something more important going on. We were only together for--” she stops herself and gets a faraway look in her eyes that makes him squirm.

He drops her wrist and looks away. He does not wish to witness her sorrow with such startling clarity. “No need to elabor--”

She holds her free hand to stop him from speaking, and for some reason it works. Because there is a look in her eyes that says: I’ve earned this moment of grief. And so he allows her this one small measure of bereavement.

Once he’s satisfied that the threat of her tears have passed, he speaks again. “The golden apples of Idunn?” he asks in hopes of some recognition. “The fruit that bestows immortality to those who eat it,” he gives up on Asgardian custom and just speaks plainly. It was considered a taboo to discuss the orchards, even within the palace walls. The apples were a weakness, something that could be used against them if the knowledge fell into the wrong hands. But seeing as there are no more Asgardians left, and Thanos has already destroyed the orchard, it makes no difference anymore.

“Like ambrosia?” she asks, and it’s a curious thing, the mind of a mortal. The tangential connections she makes, the way her thoughts seem to flit from one thing to the next without correlation; he will never understand it.

“Ambrosia is human myth, based on _epli_ [5],” he explains with what little patience he has left.

“So this is what makes you immortal?”

“Yes.” He nearly breathes a sigh of relief at her epiphany.

“So if I eat this, I’ll be like you? I’ll live forever?”

“Not forever,” Thanos seems to scold. “Just an exceptionally long time, to your kind.”

“How long?” she asks and he’s beginning to think that inquisitive nature of hers is more a liability than he’d originally thought.

“Two thousand years,” Loki shrugs. “Give or take.”

“To ensure a long and fruitful union,” Thanos says and Loki nearly shudders at the implication. “It will not last so very long, just long enough for you to see the universe I will create in Her name. Mortals are such tender creatures, so easily breakable, are they not?”

And it unsettles him that Thanos seems to nearly echo his own sentiments. Except Thanos thinks of Loki the same way he thinks of humans.

“Will this make me an Asgardian?” she asks, and Loki is so taken aback by the bitter actuality of Thanos’ words that he answers truthfully, for once.

“You are not of Asgard and neither am I. There is no Valhalla waiting at the end of this for either of us.”

“Good,” he thinks he hears her say just before she bites into the forbidden fruit. “I wouldn’t deserve it after this anyway,” she says for his ears only as she chews. And there is an uncomfortable moment of camaraderie that passes between them. Their twin rings spark in the dying light of this day as they each take and eat of the last golden apple in existence.

The fruit is more bitter than he recalls it in his youth. His mother had skinned an apple in one long, spirally peel that mesmerized him as a boy. Even when the juices of the apple stained her dress, she kept peeling. It was the first time he’d ever seen his mother prepare food. The way she delicately carved the flesh of the apple from the core, her movements quick and precise. Even when he was younger and feared there was something _wrong_ with him because of the way father treated him, he remembered that day as one of acceptance.

“You are one of us now,” his mother had whispered and rocked him in her arms while he ate the sweet slices from her skirt. “This is where you belong,” she told him with each bite.

“This is where you belong,” Thanos taunts and Loki is overcome in a swell of rage he doesn’t even realize he’s moved. But his hands know how to conjure his knives without direction. His chair is overturned and he stands with empty hands while Thanos laughs.

“Loki,” Jane hisses his name and tugs at his robes. “What happened?”

“He can see inside you,” Loki answers, still poised to strike, rigged as a corpse. “He takes your most precious memories and uses them against you.”

“Hm,” she mumbles and folds in on herself. Not physically. She is still seated next to him, her fingers curled into the line of his sleeve. But he sees her mentally fade away, as if she is being drawn through space and time. It is a most disconcerting thing, to watch someone disappear in mind alone.

He might be imagining it, but Loki thinks he sees Thanos’ eyes narrow, focusing his red eyes not on him, but the woman next to him. As if he is trying, and failing, to see inside her, to the place where her mind took her hostage. That place that not even Loki could dare to reach.[6]

“No matter,” the Titan finally says. And there seems to have been a battle of wills between she and him that Loki dares to think she might have won. But such a thing is not possible. There should be nothing he is not capable of. “You will find that I have rid this universe of your accursed _magic_ ,” he finally says and it is no surprise to Loki. The instant his daggers don’t materialize in his hands, he knows Thanos is to blame.

“Why bother, when you are clearly untouchable?” he wonders, finally pulling his sleeve from her grasp and righting his chair.

“It is a nuisance, and I would hate to have to cut this marriage short because your ego swelled to expand beyond the limits of your precious _Realm Eternal_ ,” his words echo that of Odin’s at Thor’s coronation all those years ago. That had been the start of all of this, a fact that Thanos is well aware. He seems particularly adept at reading into Loki’s mind, and it rankles him. “All that survives of it are what runs too deep to root out and what you currently wield,” Thanos explains and Loki can’t help but feel like he is annoyed about that. “It’s a curious thing, this trick of your appearance. Whatever spell Odin cast seems to cling to you so. I cannot seem to strip it from you. But it is of no consequence. Keep your vanity if you must. It means little now, when there are no subjects to be fooled. Though perhaps your wife will appreciate it, when you bed her.”

\--

Jane hears the phrase ‘bed her’ and her brain fizzles out for a second. Loki, though, seems to find it particularly offensive, the way his fists clench and his lip pulls up, exposing the whites of his teeth when he replies, “I will not take her by force. My pride forbids such an act of cowardice.”

“I had not thought there any act _too_ cowardly for Loki of the Jotunheim,” Thanos goads Loki so easily, Jane wonders why he can’t see it.

“I am of Asgard!” Loki roars in response and she can see the satisfaction on Thanos’ face at having gotten to him.

“As is your crown, and Queen. So do as Asgardian customs demand and bed her before this night is over. Or this contract is void. I am sure I can think of another serpent venomous enough to occupy your attention until my Lady comes to me.”

Jane isn’t sure what Thanos is referring to, but the way Loki seems to visibly recoil, she’s guessing whatever punishment Loki had endured in the past must have been much worse than having to sleep with a human and rule an empty world. In fact, she knows she’s not imagining it when she sees the muscles in his shoulder and neck spasm, as if he’s recalling some horrific pain that she’s thankful to have no frame of reference for.

“And if she will not have me? You would have me violate her?” Loki asks through gritted teeth. And it’s a distasteful thing to witness, his defeat. Jane can feel a subtle shift happen in her at the unlikely sight of Loki fighting to defend her honor. Though she still holds him responsible for his actions, she doesn’t necessarily _blame_ him for everything. And she certainly doesn’t think he’s anywhere near as bad as Thanos. That’s pretty obvious. As much as it pains her to admit, a few hundred human lives that Loki was responsible for taking didn’t really compare to the billions (or trillions) that Thanos had already killed in the war.

It’s strange to think of it as a war; it only took a few days before he’d systematically wiped all hope of their survival from existence. But this wasn’t the end. Jane would not allow it to be. She had a plan.

Unfortunately that meant getting Thanos to leave her and Loki alone long enough for her to put it into effect. And while she wasn’t really looking forward to what was about to happen, she was smart enough to know that it was a likely outcome when she’d offered herself up as a sacrifice to Loki’s punishment.

“I would have you _convince_ her,” Thanos threatens. “I have heard tales of your silver tongue; let us see how skilled you truly are. Though,” he says, turning to Jane for the first time, “I do not think it will come to even that. She seems a reasonable girl. I am sure she has already seen the eventuality of her choice. I doubt she will renege now.” And Jane is beginning to get pissed off that they keep talking about her like she’s not sitting right here. “She is a curious thing. I do not think I have seen a creature with quite so much spite for some time. Do you think all her kind are as vicious?”

“I’m right here!” Jane finally shouts. “Stop talking about me like I can’t hear you.”

“It is improper to discuss such things in front of a woman,” Loki says and Jane rolls her eyes.

“Give me a break! This isn’t about me. This is about you. About your precious ego. He’s right,” Jane says, gesturing at Thanos. “I knew what I was getting myself into. I’m not happy about it, but you don’t need to get your panties in a bunch because you think I’d fight you. I said I’d burn, and I meant it.” She wishes she could explain to him, even a little, that this is what needs to happen if they’re going to have any chance to fix things. But she can’t give away too much, and even though Thanos doesn’t seem to be able to read her mind like he can Loki’s, she has to be careful. She has to play her part.

“Then by all means, strike your match, Lady Jane,” he practically growls.

“A fine pair!” Thanos declares and laughs, drawing Jane out of the staring match she and Loki have been locked in. “I am satisfied with this arrangement and I have other matters to attend to. Enjoy your rule, Loki. May it be all that you hoped for,” Thanos says, descending the steps of the throne. And just before he disappears, ship and Chitauri, leaving them alone in the remnants of Asgard, he offers one last reminder. “Before this night is through, Loki.”

And despite what she said earlier, despite how she felt just a few minutes ago, Jane finds that she’s terrified.

\--

With Thanos gone, a heavy silence fills up the night air. He knows they are each mourning, in their own way. But he cannot bring himself to pity her in the least. She is far more treacherous than he had imagined.

So they sit. The dish sits empty on the long table, a reminder that their torment cannot be ended by death. It seems Thanos wanted to make sure they would both suffer long enough to see his grand scheme.

Loki stares at the untouched goblets. If this were a true Aesir wedding, the rite would not be complete until his bride served him and said an invocation, drank the bridal-ale herself, and they then drank in unison. But he supposes customs no longer apply for dead people.

“We should drink,” he finds himself saying, breaking the oppressive silence around them.

“What?” she asks. She seems confused that he’s spoken. He wonders about her mental state; the way she seems to slip from the present cannot be healthy.

“The union is not legally recognized until we drink.” He gestures at the cups.

“But he’s gone,” she says, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The cups exist because he willed it so. Do you not think he is capable of observing the fruits of his madness simply because he is not present?” he points out. “So, we drink. And then we bed, as so instructed.”

“Drink and bed,” she repeats, he suspects to herself. “Fine,” she says a moment later. And he is glad to see that her eyes are clear once again.

This is not the wedding he envisioned. This is not the rule he longed for. This is not what his mother wished so fervently for when he was a child and she cultivated relationships with all the finest families of Asgard who bore maidens. And selfishly, he finds that he is grateful she is not around now, to witness such a disgraceful sham of Aesir customs.

Pushing the thought aside, he raises his glass and waits for her to follow.

“To the burning of Loki,” he toasts.

“To being the match,” she replies. And together, they drink.

He only sips the bitter ale while she seems to gulp it down. He sneers in distaste as a few drops of ale escape her lips and slide down her chin and neck, staining the hem of her gown a muddy brown. And when she tips her head back, her crown slips from her brow.

It clatters to the floor and she only stares at it, sadly. As if it were a lost child. She pities it. Loki takes the opportunity to rid himself of his own crown, tossing it into the dark. He hopes never to see it again.

“Bed,” she announces suddenly, standing abruptly.

“There is time yet for that, no need to hurry. The executioner's noose will be no more gentle for your eagerness.”

“I’m not eager. I just want to get this over with. The sooner it’s over the sooner I can forget it ever happened.” She scans the toppled ruins of the palace and for the first time, seems to realize that they have no bed chamber. No kitchens, no rooms, nothing. There is only rubble on rubble. “There’s no threshold,” she remarks finally and he hears the sorrow in it.

Thor must have at least imparted that much of Aesir culture to her. The symbolism of thresholds as doorways to other worlds, of her transition from maidenhood to matron, of his from boy to man. But they have no doorway to pass through. Thanos has destroyed them all.

She darts off, weaving between the piles of stone and debris that litter the landscape. He watches her stop to consider a certain pile with a serious expression before she runs off to retrieve what appears to be a large supporting beam from another nearby pile. It used to be part of the ceiling trusses, he realizes. She doesn’t seem to care what it used to be though. She only drags it, leaving a line in the dirt, to the pile she was looking at before.

“What are you doing?” he finally asks, unable to anticipate where her human mind will leap to next.

“Making,” she grunts as she hauls the heavy beam, “a doorway.”

“Why bother?” Loki wonders, watching her struggle with a detached kind of apathy. “Clearly he does not require that tradition to be observed.”

“Because,” she responds, finally getting the beam over to the partially standing pillar. “He doesn’t get to win this. He doesn’t get to win,” she insists as she leans it against the pillar with a thud. The result of which is a triangle shorter than she is.

“That’s not a doorway,” he feels compelled to inform her. “You can scarcely fit through it, let alone me.”

At which point she puts her hands on her hips and sighs. Her gown is already tattered and dirty from her actions and he wishes she would stop. “Then you help.”

“No.”

“Why not?” she asks.

“It’s a waste of energy. None of this is real,” he explains and feels annoyed to have to do so. She should be well aware that this whole ceremony has been nothing more than a punishment.

“I know that,” she says and sounds genuinely offended. “You don't think I know that? When I do get married, it will be under a chuppah, I will sing from the Torah, and I will break a glass. This,” she says, gesturing between the two of them, “is the farthest thing from _real_ a wedding can get.”

“Then why does it matter?”

“Because we need a doorway,” she replies and he pinches the bridge of his nose to avoid yelling. He simply cannot understand how her mind works.

“For what purpose?”

“So that we can step through it!” she shouts and what little patience he may have had for her primitive mind is quickly fading.

“And what will such an act accomplish, Jane Foster?” He employs the only weapon he currently has in his arsenal. And the way her face crinkles in annoyance lets him know he is successful.

“Walking through a doorway symbolizes the end of your former life,” she answers and he feels like it pains her to do so. Like admitting leaves her open to ridicule. And she might have been correct, if it were not for the fact that she is correctly interpreting his customs. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to your old life? Don’t you want it to be over? Don’t you want a fresh start?”

He means to retaliate, to insist that she stop. But when he hears her reason, there is a part of him that wants it more than anything. To wipe away everything that came before, to shed the husk of his past mistakes, to rid himself of the weight of this guilt that he rapidly fears will crush him. “Come,” he instructs, his hand outstretched.

She looks at his hand for a moment, unsure what to do. “Where?” she finally asks.

“To find a doorway,” he tells her and he can see the instant she realizes he’s going to help. There is such a wave of relief that passes over her face, he thinks she nearly smiles.

\--

Jane doesn’t take his hand. That seems too weird, and he drops it before she gets over him anyway. It seems to have been more the gesture of cooperation than anything. Which is fine. She’s fine with that. Thor didn’t talk much about Asgardian customs. They spent a lot more time talking about Earth customs. But aside from the King and Queen ruling jointly, the only other thing that she really knows about is their preoccupation with doorways.

Thor had told her that night in New Mexico, when he drew the nine realms of Yggdrasil, and explained interdimensional travel with elaborate metaphors. He explained that doorways symbolized travel between realms. And it had struck a chord with her. They viewed doorways like Einstein-Rosen bridge singularities. It occurred to her that night that all travel required a doorway. That had turned out to be a guiding principal in her research going forward.

When she was developing her own bridge, she had always been more concerned with proving the mathematical relationships of the actual travel than worrying about how to open the bridge. But after Thor, after she knew it was possible, she realized she’d been thinking about it all wrong. She didn’t need to prove it was possible _theoretically_. She needed to do it _practically_. And for that, she needed a doorway capable of opening that bridge.

She recalls those times fondly. Even though she was worked to the bone and worried that he might never come back, she was still invigorated with the knowledge that she’d been right all along.

Since then, doorways held a significant amount of sentimental attachment for her. And even though it was practically meaningless, she would not let this day pass without completing the marriage ritual. She needed this. And she was sure he did too. If they were going to stand a chance of working together, they were both going to need this.

“Do you think there are any left in the palace?” Jane asks once she realizes the direction they’re headed.

“There may be one,” he answers, moving quickly through the piles of debris. “The weapons vault.”

“That’s underground, isn’t it?” she recalls from her brief time here. She remembers Frigga mentioning the vault.

“And so should be unscathed,” he says as they walk.

Jane doesn’t bother to ask any more questions. She has the information she needs. They’re going to find a threshold, and she’s going to walk through it on her own two feet and then she’s going to get to work.

“What punishment did he threaten you with?” she finds herself asking as they walk. She’s not sure what makes her ask. Is it curiosity? Is it the way he looked when Thanos threatened him? Or is it just to stop the silence?

“What punishment?” he asks, defensively.

“Something about a snake’s venom? Why are you so scared of it? What kind of snake is it?” she asks as she stumbles over a large rock, catching herself before she falls flat on her face.

“I am not afraid,” he insists.

“Maybe not, but you chose this over that so I’m thinking it’s got to be worse than this,” she points out.

“Yes,” he finally concedes. “Far worse.” She can’t really tell much from looking at his back, but she doesn’t feel like he’s trying to be cryptic so much as he doesn’t want to relive whatever it is he’s thinking about.

“What was it?” she asks softly, knowing what a tentative thing it is, for Loki to be sincere like this.

“Pain,” he says and nothing else.

And Jane doesn’t think she needs any more explanation than the way he seems to shut down. She’s happy to let the rest of the trek be spent in silence. Eventually, she spots him stopping up ahead. His longer gait and familiarity of the palace makes him faster.

“Is it there?” she asks eagerly, coming up beside him.

“The entrance should be just under these stones.” He points to the massive pile of broken columns and what she can only assume used to be an enormous set of stairs.

“We can't move that,” she says, feeling utterly defeated.

“You? No.” He shakes his head. “But I can.”

“How?” she scoffs. “You don't have any magic,” she feels the need to remind him.

“You forget, Jane Foster. I am a Jotun.”

And before she can figure out what that really means, he's hoisting a huge boulder over his shoulder and tossing it aside. She hasn't seen anyone that strong since… since Thor. “You're strong?” she finds herself asking. Even though the answer seems obvious. “Why aren't I strong?” she wonders. “I ate the apple too.”

“The apples can only extend life. They cannot change your nature,” he replies before he hefts another enormous chunk of stone and heaves it to the side.

“By nature, do you mean genetics?” she asks, but he doesn't answer. She doesn't really blame him. From the way his arms are straining and he's sweating, she’s pretty sure he's at his physical limit. But once the largest pieces have been moved, Jane decides to help. She knows she can’t manage even half the weight he can, but she can still help clear the smaller chunks to make room for him to work.

He stops for a second to watch her before returning to what he was doing. She wonders if he was going to tell her not to, or if it bothers him for her to help. Whatever his reservation, he seems to overcome it quick enough that Jane leaves it be.

She can make out the first few steps of the stairs that must lead to the vault now. Her arms ache and it’s getting hard to see now that the sun has completely set. But the night is clear, she wonders if it always is on this impossible planet of just one city. The light of Asgard’s neighboring planets, the formations of interstellar dust and what she can only assume are nearby galaxies all cast just enough light to still see. She misses the moon though. The night sky doesn't look right without one.

Bolstered by their progress, she begins to get more ambitious with her actions. She begins to load armfuls of wreckage into the skirt of her gown, using it like a bucket as she hauls it up and out of the stairwell. On her third run, just as she’s turning to head back up the six steps they’ve cleared, her foot catches on a broken ledge that cracks under her weight.

She doesn’t even have time to cry out before she’s toppling backwards, into the unstable pile of debris that still blocks their path, and goes smashing through it. She barely manages to throw her arms over her head as she rolls down the stairs, with large chunks of rubble following after.

\--

Loki only has time to think about how precarious her footing looks before she trips and goes crashing through the rest of the blockade. She makes a small sound of surprise, and then all he hears is marble crashing into marble.

“Jane!” he shouts and lunges after her, into the dark depths of the vault. It's completely black and he stumbles gracelessly down the rest of the stairs. Once he reaches the bottom, he feels the sides of the walkway, framed in the water flows he recalls so well.

There is just enough light cast from Asgard’s starry sky that he can see mounds of black in the entryway to the vault.

“Jane,” he calls, hoping one of the mounds will move. He knows she cannot be dead. The apple will ensure that. It is most potent when first consumed. But she may still be maimed or injured.

“Here,” she calls and he spins to his right.

“Where?” He narrows his eyes and tries to focus.

“In the water,” she says and he can hear it now, the slosh of the water as she moves.

“Are you injured?” he asks, kneeling down next to where she sits.

“I don't think so. Just a little bruised. The water broke my fall.”

“You are lucky,” he says, fishing her from the stream. “You could have been seriously wounded.”

“At least we made it through the rocks,” she says and her optimism makes him wonder just who exactly he's married. “How long did that take? How long are the nights on Asgard? How can gravity feel earth equivalent when the two are so different? And what about the atmosphere--”

“You’re babbling,” he informs her as he helps her to sit on the last step.

“I’m aware,” she admits and takes a few deep breaths. “Sorry,” she finally says and he can see what it costs her to say. And once again, she perplexes him. Hadn’t she been keen, earlier this evening, to watch him burn? Satisfied enough to sentence herself to thousands of years of enduring the companionship of someone she hated, if only to watch his pain.

And now, she still holds his hand from when he helped her sit, and apologizes. He can’t make sense of her. What is she playing at? What does she really want? He needs to figure that out before he has any hope of manipulating this to his advantage. If that is even what he wants. He’s not sure about that either. What is his purpose now, if not to be tormented?

“What do you--”

“Oh look!” she declares loudly, cutting him off mid-sentence. “A door!” She is, of course, referring to the door of the weapons’ vault. Still locked. Not that it did them any good, in the end.

“You wish to enter?” he asks, just to make sure he’s correctly interpreted her outburst.

“Yes, definitely. How do you open it?”

“With a key,” he responds, as if that should have been obvious.

“Okay, do you have it?”

“No. Only Odin has the key.”

“But weren’t you pretending to be Odin? Can’t we use that key?”

“That key was an illusion,” he replies, again, as if that should have been obvious. He worries that the fall may have addled her mind.

“Then how do we get in?” she asks. She is soaking wet, her wedding gown is nearly in tatters, her shoes are gone, and her hair has fallen out of its coiff and is now tangled with flowers. Frankly, she is a mess.

“You look appalling,” he finds himself saying and he can actually watch the instant her anger takes over. She seems to stand taller, as if his insult has reinvigorated some long lost self worth. But he’s not sure that’s it either. She just seems to be more formidable when she is irate.

“Try looking in a mirror. You’re not looking so hot either, God of Lies.”

“God of Mischief, if you like. Or God of Stories. I--”

“I swear if the words ‘I don’t lie’ are about to come out of your mouth, I’m going to slap you.”

“Such violence.” He shakes his head. “I see now why he favored you.” He meant to say the name, to wound her by the mention of Thor, but he finds that he cannot bring himself to. Not even to ruffle her.

“He loved me,” she corrects him, and he sees the pain it causes her to do so. “Thor loved me.”

He finds he must turn from her then, no longer able to stand the look in her eyes as she speaks the name he cannot bring himself to. Instead, he turns his focus on the large, sealed door in front of them. Now that the dust has settled, there is a faint glow provided by the natural cave walls that frame the door. It’s strange; he’s sure he’s been down here in the dark and never seen them glow. It must be the cosmic light, reflecting off the water that gives it that radiance. He’s sure this cave has never seen the light of the sun or stars. But now with the palace destroyed, it glows for the first time.

“He loved you too,” she says, and he is so absorbed with the walls that it takes a moment to register what she’s said.

But when he does, there is rage in him. He knew Thor loved him, he’d always known it. Even when it meant using that as a weapon to manipulate him, he’d always known. He doesn’t need reminding of it. But… but maybe he forgot; maybe he feared that his involvement with Thanos, his role in the downfall of their home was enough to break those ties, once and for all. “Did he suffer?” he asks, his hand still held against the cold stone and his back turned to her.

“No,” she says softly. “It happened so fast.” He wonders if she weeps. If she does, he doesn’t want to know. He keeps his back turned. “So fast,” she says again and he feels her grief as if it is a tangible thing.

Spurned to action, he realizes he will suffocate if they remain in this cave any longer. He must get through the door. It would have been a simple thing with his magic, no trouble at all. But without it, he finds that he is little more useful than a mortal. Though he has more strength than she does, it is not nearly enough to force the door.

Looking at his hand resting against the stone wall, he realizes he does still have some magic. Thanos himself had said it. The illusion charm that Odin cast all those years ago when he stole Loki. He could not dismantle it. Which means that Loki still possesses at least that much.

He thanks all the gods in that moment for Frigga. Her lessons in magic were no ordinary tricks. She taught him how to tap into the spring well of innate magic of the world and harness it for himself. He has never had to harness magic that clings to himself before, but the concept should be no different. The only possible risk is to his appearance.

\--

“Turn away,” Loki instructs after a few minutes. She can tell he’s been thinking about how best to get into the vault. He seems to come to a conclusion, which is good. Though she has no idea what that is.

“Okay,” she says, unsure what he wants to hide. She turns slowly, facing the stairs. What could he be doing that he doesn’t want her to see? It’s not like he has magic anymore. “Oh!” she says, whirling around just in time to see his hands glow green and the doors scrape open. “You have magic!” she announces excitedly.

But when he turns to her, she realizes her mistake. That is not the Loki she’s come to know. Even in the dark, she can see how blue his complexion has become. There are lines on his face and neck; she can’t tell if they’re tattoos or something else. And his eyes - his eyes are red. “Loki?” she asks because she doesn't know what else to say.

“Don't!” He rushes to cover his face, but his hands are just as blue. As she watches, she can see his other complexion begin to come back. It gradually creeps up his hands and neck until he looks like himself again.

Once he's back to normal he checks his hands, front and back twice before he turns back to her. And she already knows he's furious.

“You're blue? That's the big secret?” she asks, utterly confused. And all of the bluster seems to leave him.

“Yes,” he says, like he expects more… what, she's not sure.

“Why is that so shameful? There was a Nazi in WWII who was red. That was way worse; he was a Nazi. There are stories in the news all the time now about inhumans who are purple or orange or bright yellow. The hulk is green,” she points out and she can almost swear she sees him smile.

“It is not the color. It is the _reason_ for the color.”

“What's the reason? Are you radioactive?” she asks, taking a cautious step back.

“Surely Thor must have told you the secret of my birth.”

“He said you were adopted. But why is that a secret?” She shakes her head.

“I am a Jotun,” he says, and the way he says it - all dramatic and intense - makes her think she's missing something.

“Yeah, you said that earlier. They're another race. Like humans, right? From another planet?”

“Jotar are not like humans. They are monsters,” he demands, and Jane can't help but think it's kind of sad, how much he wants to be seen as a villain.

“I've seen monsters,” she says quietly. “The only resemblance I can see is red eyes.”

“You said so yourself, I am no better,” he points out.

“I lied,” she shrugs. “I needed him to think I hated you.”

“But… why?”

“I need your help,” she answers honestly.

“I very much doubt that. You've made it quite clear what you think of me. Am I not a war criminal? No better than the murderous psychopath who singled-handedly wiped half the universe from existence? What use would you have for one you think so little of?” And she can see a hint of it, just a glimmer of what Thor used to see in him. She knew he always wanted to believe the best in his brother. Right up until his death, Thor loved him. She wonders if this is some of what Thor saw in him, his self-inflicted enmity. The pathological contempt he seemed to harbor for _what he was_. She can’t even imagine what it must feel like, to hate himself - everything he is - as much as he does.

“How long until sunrise?” she asks instead and it seems to take him a few seconds to get his bearings before he answers.

“I cannot be sure,” he says, looking back up the stairwell, trying to see the stars’ progress in the night sky, she guesses. “Not long.”

“Then we can discuss the rest later. For now, threshold,” she says, “then bed.”

“But--”

“Please,” she says, cutting him off. “It's been a long day and I just want to get this over with.”

“How dare you!” he yells and runs a hand through his hair. She can see he's really rattled. “How dare you speak of fatigue. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What you have doomed us to? This is your doing! None of this would be happening if not for you!”

“Me!” she yells right back. “You think I _wanted_ this? You think this is my fault!? Look who’s talking. If it wasn't for you, Thanos would never have come to Earth. Thor would still be alive! Asgard wouldn't be a _dead_ world!” she shrieks. “How dare _I_? How dare you!”

“You’re no better. You looked that monster right in the eye and asked for this!” Loki says, the hatred clearly written in his eyes. “You condemned me to this. I have no pity for snakes.”

“What do you think he would have done to us if I hadn’t suggested this?” She gets right up in his face. She will not let him intimidate her.

“Killed me!” he screams, almost sobs. “He should have killed me.”

“He was never going to kill you, you know that, right?” she asks softly. He must know she’s right. Thanos would never have allowed him a painless death. Not like Thor. That would have been too merciful.

“Mindless pain is a close second,” he finally says and she’s not imagining the way his chin quivers. He’s on the verge of tears.

“This was the only way,” she admits, feeling a little calmer now. “At least this way, we stand a chance.”

“Stand a chance at what? What is it you're scheming?” His eyes dart back and forth between hers, as if he’s trying to extract the information he wants.

“A _chance_ , okay? A chance to stop him. To _fix_ this.”

“How? How can one human change any of this?” he asks and she can see, even through his grief, that he's curious. He wants to believe her, but he doesn't. He really has given up.

“I-I can't tell you. Not yet,” she rushes to correct herself.

“Why not?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“You're too easy to read.”

“To read?”

“You said it yourself. Thanos can see inside your mind. Remember? He knows what you're thinking. I can't tell you. Or he'll find out,” she explains and she thinks she can see some resignation in him at her reasoning.

“But not you?” he asks.

“You saw him try. For some reason, he can't. So, for now, I'll keep it to myself. But I had my reasons for agreeing to this. And it wasn't _just_ to see you suffer,” she swears.

“‘Just’?” he asks, and raises an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean,” she sighs.

“I assure you, I understand very little of what you mean, Jane Foster. Why tell me at all then, if you so fear his forays into my psyche? Is it not a risk already to tell me this much?” he points out.

“Easy. He's so arrogant, even if he knew I was planning something he wouldn't see it as a real threat,” she answers quickly, because she knows she has that much of an advantage with almost every other species in the universe. They always underestimated humans, and it always caught up with them in the end. “Look, I'll explain later. Okay?” she practically begs.

“Later when?”

“When it's safe,” she says. “When it's too late to stop.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, we're going to walk through that door. Each of us. On our own two feet. We're going to say goodbye to our old lives. And we're going to sleep together. I assume some sort of… completion is required for Asgardian rituals to be satisfied. Knowing how things work, I'm going to guess it's you. So, that will happen. And then we will forget this day ever happened and we will get to work,” she stammers through the plan, as far as she’s managed to get.

“Completion?” he asks with the exact same expression her Great Aunt Sarah used to make when she heard the word ‘penetration’.

“Orgasm?” she guesses. “I don't know the Asgardian slang for busting a nut so let's just go with ‘happy time.’”

“Dear gods,” he murmurs and actually puts his hand over his mouth.

“Loki, we are about to get naked and have sexual intercourse. That is what ‘bed’ means, isn't it? Or is there some obscure Asgardian custom to have pillow fights on wedding nights?” She is way too tired to play along with his proper British thing.

But he doesn't respond. And she's beginning to worry that she's broken him.

“Loki?” she asks, taking a step towards him.

“I take it back,” he finally says. “ _Now_ I see why he loved you. Gods above. I've never heard such crassness save for Thor.” And for some reason, that makes Jane feel a little better. And the fact that it seems to unsettle him is just an added bonus.

“Ready?” she asks and he nods.

\--

They do not touch, he does not carry her, but they do step through in unison. An odd interpretation of Aesir custom. But he sees why they do. It seems to be a recurring theme in their… situation. There is, of course, no magic to accompany the gesture. There is no literal clean wipe of their past selves. Just the symbolic cleansing. Which is as much as he could have hoped for.

Though, he feels no different than before. Not that he really thought he would.

Inside, they find the vault untouched. Each relic in its place, not a bit of damage. It almost feels like stepping back in time. He remembers visiting the vault as a child, with his father and brother. Back when he had both.

Now that they are through the door, he knows what must come next. But he has a difficult time conceptualizing such an act with her.

“There is no bed,” he points out, just in case she is not already aware. But of course she is. She has eyes. But he feels oddly nervous. Unsure of how to proceed.

“I can just bend ove--”

“Please,” he stops her, holding a hand up, as if to bar the image from reaching his mind. “I have indulged you the tradition of finding a threshold. Would you not concede the _logistics_ of what is about to happen to me? I beg of you.”

“I've had sex befor--”

“A wedding gift!” he blurts out in an effort to stop her from finishing that sentence.

“What?”

“It is customary to give and receive wedding gifts. I will give a single magical favor. One free use of the limited power I still posses. At your behest, at any time, for any reason. I will do whatever you wish. If you would please, _please_ , in return, simply refrain from speaking again.” He is aware that he is prostrating himself. But he knows no other way to facilitate their coupling if she continues to carry on as she has been.

“Just close your eyes and think of someone else,” she responds.

“No!” he shouts, a little too quickly. But only because he knows who she will be thinking of. And he cannot bear it.

She seems to deliberate for several long moments before she rolls her eyes and nods quite dramatically. And he realizes it is her way of honoring his wishes. Though, in a somewhat juvenile way.

He considers thanking her, but his pride has already suffered so much. He holds his tongue. Instead he scans the room for where best to lay. The center of the room is open and free of obstructions and has a wide enough walkway that they can lay side by side and not touch.

“Here,” he says, making his way over. He unclasps his royal wedding cloak and divests himself of whatever garments he can comfortably live without. He lays them on the ground in some semblance of a bed.

She follows after, silent, as requested. Though once she figures out what he's going, she lifts the skirt of her dress and gives him a questioning look. She wants to know if she should lay her dress down too. He should decline. But he is down to only a pair of linen trousers[7] and there is still very little padding. So he nods and turns away.

There is a rustle of cloth and when he turns back he expects to see her in her shift. But he finds that she has removed shift and gown as one. Leaving her breasts bare and her most private of regions shielded only by the traditional feminine undergarments.

At the unexpected sight of her unbound chest, he immediately turns away. Which, he reasons, is ridiculous. If she does not take offense, neither should he. It is just… not how he has been raised. Gathering his nerve, he turns back to her, only to find her scrambling to pull on her sodden shift. But it clings to her arms and head while she grunts in frustration.

“Do not be alarmed,” he says in a low voice as he comes up to her. And with careful movements, he helps her to remove it once again. “I am going to touch you now,” he whispers and this time when she nods he does not think she is mocking him.

Her breasts are soft under his palms, cold from the water and he wishes he can provide some warmth. But he knows from experience that his hands are always cold. She jumps slightly at the first touch. “They’re cold,” he acknowledges. “It is not in my nature to be warm,” he tries to explain. Though all he can really think about is the double meaning.

He will not kiss her. He has already decided. But he needs to stimulate her, and himself. Which will require some interaction. But he does his best to do only the bare minimum. He kisses her neck instead. But she is unexpectedly petite up close. So he must dip his head quite far to reach.

As he does, she closes her eyes and leans her head away, allowing him free reign. “Keep them open,” he asks and is not surprised to find his voice has turned deeper, darker. That, too, is his nature.

And whether it is the strangely submissive way she obliges him or simply the expectation of coitus, Loki finds that he is quite affected. Already he can feel himself filling out his britches. At the sensation of her hands on the bare skin of his back he has to take a moment to consider what is truly happening.

She touches him without fear. Not hungrily. Not with any kind of passion. But there is an implicit trust there. That he will bring her no harm, at the least. And it is an odd sensation. One he had not thought to look for. But he finds he enjoys it. He finds that the more she gives in to him, the more he craves.

His hands move down her back and over the curve of her rear. At which point he _lifts_. Bringing her hips in line with his, and her feet off the floor. And almost, as if dutifully, her legs wrap around his waist. Bringing his erection in direct contact with the apex of her legs.

She makes a noise at the sensation. Not a moan. Just a deeper breath. But it spurns him forward, taking the opportunity to roll his pelvis against hers. Practically grinding himself against her.

“Hold on,” he instructs and is satisfied to feel her grip tighten around his neck. He then sinks to his knees as gently as he can and leans back on his heels so that she is now seated in his lap. Giving him better access to her neck and freer attention for her breasts.

He sucks low on her neck and rolls one of her nipples between his fingers, satisfied to feel it harden in his grasp. He then drags the palm of his hand across her perked nipple. The sensation of which makes him shift up, rutting against her.

This should be enough. Her willingness. Her body’s physiological reactions to him. His arousal is adequate. But something stops him from proceeding. In her rant earlier, she made it seem as though his satisfaction alone would be sufficient. But he finds that it irks him. To think of burying himself inside her and bucking his hips into a blind, singular completion. It feels cheap. Which, he supposes, this was meant to be. Hollow and demeaning. But her adamance earlier about the threshold, that Thanos not be allowed to _win_ \- it strikes a chord with him. He finds that he, too, is unwilling to admit defeat in this.

The stipulation was only that he bed her. Not that he do so poorly. Or to either of their detriment. After all, they were both acting of their own volition, if not for some question of coercion. But still. She has accepted him. And he feels as though it is a question of chivalry. It would be unfitting someone his upbringing to act so cruelly, so selfishly in such a situation.

He desires her completion as well. He requires it.

“Show me,” he says and finds that his words come out in short gasps. “Show me what pleases you.[8]”

He hears her sudden intake of breath and feels it as her breasts swell in his grasp.

She seems hesitant at first, unsure. But eventually she takes one of his hands and moves it down her side to her hip, tightening her grip of his hand on her. Then she rocks her hips back and forth, rubbing herself against his erection.

So he does it again and again and again until they are both panting and grinding against the other. Her skin is hot now under his hands. And she holds her bottom lip between her teeth, as if to keep from making a sound. He's not sure if it is still because of his request or if she is unwilling to vocalize her yearning. But he finds that he wishes she wouldn't hold back any longer.

And he knows he shouldn't. He knows it goes against his better judgement. Against his own decision not to, but he finds that he cannot help himself. He needs to, for his own satisfaction, he must kiss her. If only to free the lip she is in danger of deforming.

So he leans forward and softly puckers his lips against just the corner of hers. It is a tentative gesture. A question more than an actual display. She does not reciprocate. Though she does not pull away either. So he does it again, only this time to the other side of her mouth. Just a half kiss, a request more than anything. And this time, when he pulls away, her fingers tighten in his hair at the base of his skull. Whether she means to or not, he takes it to be an invitation to try again.

This time when he slowly leans in, his eyes open and locked with hers, she kisses back. Finally releasing the lip from her abuse of it. And the moment she gives in to him is more satisfying than anything else he has experienced thus far. A jolt of lust shoots down his stomach and directly to his groin, making him twitch.

The kiss is messy. Wet and open-mouthed, he feels like he's slowly losing himself to this. But his goal of bringing her to orgasm is still at the forefront. So he tips them forward, to lay her on her back and kneels between her spread legs.

Knowing what she likes, he reaches down into his underpants, taking hold of himself, and pulls his erection free of the waistline. He then uses the tip to run along her undergarments where he knows she wants it. And this time she arches into the touch. Her breasts moving as she does, and he cannot tear his eyes away from her chest.

“Are you close?” he asks, desperately hoping so because he feels himself rapiding unraveling.

To which she nods.

“Tell me,” he finds himself asking. He doesn't want her silence anymore. In fact, he needs to hear her.

“Touch me,” she says, already reaching down to wiggle free of her last article of clothing. He takes the opportunity to do the same, kicking his trousers and underwear off with a bit more gusto than he would have liked. But the way she lays bare before him strikes a nerve.

This is more than a formality. He finds that he _wants_ this. He wants _her_.

Unwilling to investigate what that may mean, he instead focuses on her. On the exposed skin of her thighs, and the sliver of slick flesh that lays nestled in a thatch of dark hair between her legs. He reaches for her, narrowing his attention to the bundle of nerves just above her opening.

With care, he rubs it. In slow circles at first but as her breathing begins to speed up, so too do his movements. Until she begins to move her hips, raising them and moving them from side to side, aiding him in his mission. His other hand rests just under her ribs, where he can feel the fluttering of her abdominal muscles.

She is close now. He can feel it in her impatience.

“Touch yourself,” she suddenly asks. And he needn’t be asked twice. With one hand still continuing its ministrations, his other eagerly takes his member in hand and begins to stroke.

“Like this?” he asks and scoots closer so he is nearly touching her slit with his tip.

“Yes,” she says and something seems to spark in her at the word. Because she says it again and again and again. Like a fount that's been cracked open. With the admission of her desires, she finds herself on the cusp of orgasm.

“Come,” he pleads. He knows his own is not far behind. But he will not allow himself to take his own pleasure without sating hers first.

And his words almost feel like magic, the way her entire body goes rigid and she exhales so deeply, he fears she may suffocate. He knows he should wait. He should allow her this moment of bliss to pass before pushing inside. But he is so nearly there that he fears watching her come may push him over the edge.

“Forgive me,” he mumbles in apology as he slides inside of her completely. And the feeling of her wrapped around him is paradise. The sensation is like no other.

He makes an unintelligible sound of pure liberation. _Finally_ , is all he can think. This is what his body has been craving since the moment he turned to see her nudity. And it is so overwhelming, he is beyond the point of keeping up pretenses. So he buries his head in her neck and puts his arms under her head while his hips snap back and forth with wild abandon.

He is fairly nearly attempting to crawl inside her, the way he clings to her and bucks into her. And he doesn't care. By all the gods, he could swear this - right here, right now - was the cure for vanity and pride and conceit.

“Let go,” she says encouragingly and runs a hand over his hair. And, again, as if by magic, it is made so. He can feel everything that has pent up inside him come spilling out. It is not just lust and his seed he releases. It's grief and guilt. It's frustration and desperation. It's helplessness and vengefulness. It’s hate and joy and bitter regret. He takes all that he is, and at her offering, surrenders it.

At some point, he becomes aware that he is weeping. Still seated firmly inside of her, he is crying. He should be horrified. He should turn away or retreat. Anything but lay there, slowly crushing her with his weight, and crying into her arms. But he doesn't. His legs feel weak and his breath is short. And… and she lets him. In fact, she weeps with him.

And that is how they enter marriage together. A weeping mass of empty shells with nothing left to lose.

\--

Later, much, much later, Jane will wonder if Thanos knew. If he could use the gems to peer into the future and see what was to come. Is that why he allowed it? Why he pushed for it in the first place? Did he always know how it would end? Is that why he looked so satisfied?

But then she reminds herself that he couldn't have. He wouldn't have. If he really did know what was going to happen, he would have kept them sequestered to separate realms for eternity. He never would have allowed them to mingle. After all, it was only by their combined efforts that he was finally defeated.

And he wouldn't have allowed that, right? He wouldn't have chosen death? He wouldn't have orchestrated his own demise. Would he?

Would he?

\--

Loki wakes sometime in the night, horrified at the way he clings to the mortal. No, mortal no longer. She is now his equal, in every conceivable way.

He takes great care to extricate himself with as little disturbance to her as possible. The last thing he wants is to have to face the reality of what they’ve done.

Though the state of them does little to mask it. She is still naked, as is he. Her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm that he envies. How can she sleep so soundly when she’s just bargained away her life? How can she curl herself into the shape of his side, as if there were comfort to be found there? How could she have yielded to him so readily? Does she feel no shame, the way she arched into his touch and begged him to fill her?

How could she? What kind of terrifying creature is she, that she could satisfy such carnal desires on the same night her beloved was murdered - in front of her very eyes, no doubt?

And when the answer comes to him, when he truly sees her for what she is, he very nearly grabs her by the shoulders to shake her awake. To demand that she explain herself. Because the cruelty of it, the horrid irony, makes him question her involvement. Was she truly blameless? Did she truly offer herself for mutually assured destruction? Or was she in some way a part of this? Was she working with Thanos? Because this kind of subterfuge and mockery reeked of him. Only a true master of torment could pull off such a fitting punishment.

Because, of course, _that_ would be the answer. Of course it would be _her_.

It seems only right that she be his bride, once he does see it. For what better punishment was there than to bind him to someone so like him in temperament but so contrary in principle?

Yes. He sees it now. Sees her for what she is. She has a ruthlessness about her. A cunning that strikes him as incongruent. He would never have thought to look for it in Thor’s mate. She is too like Loki. Though he knows nothing of her life, he knows alienation when he sees it. He can read the same embittered history written in her every action. She has been belittled. She has been disparaged and overlooked, he’s sure of it.

They way she declared her intention to set herself alight, just to watch him suffer. The way she would not allow Thanos to win last night as they hunted for a doorway. The way she took it upon herself to devise a plan for revenge, and then conveniently left him in the dark.

She is like a jewel, backed by the reflective foil of his character, so that she might shine all the brighter for it. She is a mirror image of him. Caustic, spiteful, intransigent, and vengeful. Exactly like him. She sought acknowledgement with the same unyielding thirst he did. Though, from whom and for what, he was unsure. But he could see it in her, that same persistence. The same righteousness. She wanted to redeem herself, prove herself, validate herself.

The only difference is how their ambitions manifested. She took her grudge, all that animosity and contempt, and turned it inward. She used it as fuel in her quest for acceptance. But Loki, oh - he’d never been good at looking inward. He’d always prefered to project his insecurities outwardly, as if he could coerce his naysayers into submission. As he if could force Odin to extol him.

He knew now the folly of such a worthless act. But there was a time in his life he was completely convinced it was better to be feared than to be loved. How asinine he feels now. How absurd it was, to think that his actions could have compelled the Allfather to bestow glory and praise. How sad it is that it took the death of the universe for Loki to recognize his behavior for what it was: a child crying out for attention, jealous of his brother’s perceived favor.

And perhaps this is it. This is the dawning of his epiphany. Laying next to his naked wife, considering all the ways her conduct illuminates his deficiencies.

And the theatrics of it, the histrionics of being bound to his equal and opposite is too perfect. The way she reflects all of his inadequacies; it can’t have been chance that brought them together. Even Thanos could not have orchestrated this as precisely as he has - even if she was somehow in concert with him. The chances of it, the sheer impossibility of it… there’s only one thing he can think of.

This is the kind of twist only the Fates were capable of weaving.

And once seen, the Norn’s threads can not be unseen. He can feel their strands tighten around his neck, a noose only he can feel.

He will hang for this, of that he is sure.

With one final glance, he slips from her grasp and hurries from the vault. He knows now to keep his distance.

She is dangerous. It was arrogance that blinded him before, when she offered herself as a war bride and he thought her lesser for it. He sees now that it was him who was brought low by hubris and vanity. And in so doing, she has succeeded where all others before have failed.

As the sun dawns he flees, naked and cowering, into the shadows. And he knows defeat this day. He scurries into hiding, the taste of utter deference like an astringent poison on his lips.

There is no doubt she will be his downfall. The Fates have seen to it. All he can do now is delay the inevitable.

\--

Married life wasn't really what Jane thought it would be.

She started the first day of her married life foraging for clothes. Seeing as hers were all balled up and dirty and not to mention a really impractical dress, she needed something else.

She finally found what looked like it could have been a royal washing department. There were clothes scattered all over, buried under remains of the palace walls. Most of them seemed to be men’s clothes. But she wasn't picky. As long as the pants stayed up and the shirt was short-sleeved, it was fine.

She spent awhile trying things on and making piles of things that fit, things that didn't, and things that might fit Loki. She wouldn't give it to him. But she might tell him about it. If he wanted to come look for himself. Depending on how their next interaction went. When she woke up alone this morning in the weapon’s vault on his wedding clothes, she decided dressing took immediate precedence.

She could use the other clothes to make a more comfortable bed, maybe. Or maybe she could find one of those oh-so-comfortable Asgardian mattresses that weren’t too damaged.

And so her days went. Exploring, trying to remember where things used to be, planning what to do next. She rarely made it back to the vault, but when she did, Loki was never anywhere to be found. But occasionally she would see something missing from where she remembered it. So she assumed he was doing well. Or okay at least.

She didn't sleep in the vault. She tried that second night. But she found that she just kept thinking about the previous night. And that led places she didn't really want to go. And with the temperature so moderate and the nights so clear, she found the view of the stars was much more comforting than an underground sex den.

She didn’t appear to get hungry. So that was good news because she had no idea where to find food. And she didn't seem to need a bathroom which always made survival conditions a lot easier.

So without those basic requirements, she was free to turn to other needs. Eventually she found a bed half buried in rubble. But only half. She spent almost two days rigging up a few struts and pivot points so she could pry the large boulder off the other half.

She had a few cuts in the end, but was mostly unscathed. So she called that a win. She set up the bed and her small cache of clothes near the pier beside the rainbow bridge. She liked the sound of the water at night. On a deserted planet, the sound was a welcome distraction from all the nothing.

And so it went. The business of living. First she gathered the basics. Then she turned her attention to formulating a concrete plan. What supplies she would need. And interspersed in it all, she grieved. For Thor, for Earth, for the life that was taken from her.

She spent almost a week straight wandering the ruins, not really doing much of anything. Just remembering what this world used to be. She remembered Thor, the way he seemed so pleased to be able to show it off. She remembered the few short days they spent together before the convergence. It’s a lost week. One where she didn’t move forward. She didn’t plan. She just existed. She just mourned.

She visited Mjølnir in the ruins, sat beside it for an entire day, crying. It all happened so fast. She didn’t even really have time to process the loss that first night. But now that she’s alone, really, really alone, she couldn’t think of anything else.

After that first week, she made herself move. She got up, she explored, but above all - she planned.

She knew herself; she knew she couldn’t remain idle for long. Not when she had work to do. She swore that first night, before the littering of stars of an alien galaxy, as she said her name and entered into this contract - that she would have her revenge.

Thanos would not be allowed to win. She would not let him. She would not let Thor, and everyone else’s sacrifices have been in vain. She had a responsibility, as one of the few survivors, to make sure that he got what he deserved.

So, she kept busy.

She made lists on scraps of rags and with the charred ends of sticks. She didn't need a fire, she knew, but it was still nice at night. And she figured if Loki _was_ looking for her it would help. That had taken quite a while to get going. But she managed eventually.

She was going to need better supplies to make this work, though.

She kept track of time with tally marks. And about day 17 she realized she needed to talk to Loki. He knew better than she did if or where she could find paper and pens. And other things she was going to need.

The only problem was she had no idea where he was. She hadn't been back to the vault in at least seven days, so she had no idea if he was still hanging around. What if he left? What if he was living in the mountains or had disappeared to another realm through one of his super secret passageways?

That night she decided. She would wait at the vault for three days. If he didn't show up in that time, she would make the biggest signal fire she could.

\--

Loki sat by the water; his favored spot since he was a child. He enjoyed the solitude then. Now he enjoyed the distraction. The fish, the waves, the wind. Even the occasional sound of his Midgardian wife doing… whatever the hell she did all day long.

He kept an eye on her. Always from a distance. He observed, trying to discern patterns, causality, intent. What was it she was working so hard towards? What plan had she concocted?

At first she gathered clothes, pillows, eventually a mattress that she dragged through the ruins all the way to the dock. And everywhere she went, she seemed to leave behind trace impressions of him. She would arrange a pile of clothes all well suited for him. He, of course, had no use for them. He'd long since found his own clothes. Though, he did take a few trousers and tunics; the linen was lighter and better suited for freedom of movement than some of his more formal wear. Even when she found a bed, she took the time to transport her elaborate and convoluted lifting apparatus next to a nearby bed. As if for him to use. Not realizing he’d secured one for himself days before and cleared it with little effort.

She seemed to explore farther and farther each day. Reaching all the way out to the old city by the 15th day. He always noted the ritual marking of the day's end on a large section of uncollapsed wall near her encampment. She did not seem to be aware that she was vandalizing one of the last relics of Asgard’s history: the Epic of Bergelmir in the aftermath of the death of Ymir, with her markings.[9]

And it seemed pointless to tell her.

He dreamt of her though. Every night, without fail. Her eyes, her lips, her skin. He dreamt of going to her, crawling into her bed and making her surrender to him. And always he would wake gasping for breath. The sensation of being inside her was so _real_ , so visceral, he was beginning to think that there must have been more at work than just his imagination.

He suspected Thanos was probably involved in some way. He and that insipid mind stone. He was plotting to destroy Loki by having him lose control. But he fought it as best he could, which meant keeping his distance. Although, he could not allow her to wander all over Asgard without oversight.

He didn’t follow her, exactly. More like he happened upon her while he wandered. But he chose to remain hidden. Whenever his mind did turn to memories of their first night together, he cringed.

And she seemed content to let him be, for a while.

It wasn't until the 19th day that it dawned on him that she was looking for him. He wasn't sure why, but once he did realize it, he was momentarily overcome with an irrational panic. Followed immediately by anger. Why did she look for him? What did she want? She was getting along fine until now. Surely she could remain independent.

He kept his distance for a few more days in the hopes that she would give up.

He should have known better.

\--

“Loki!” Jane screams. Her voice is going hoarse and the smoke from her fire makes her cough. “Come on!” she calls again. She’s been burning everything she can since yesterday morning, trying to get his attention. At first she was genuinely concerned that he’d left. But the longer she waited, with nothing to do, the more convinced she became that he wasn't gone. He was just hiding from her. Like a big, giant baby.

“If you don't show yourself I'm going to start burning your clothes!” she threatens. But it's an empty threat. She hasn't been able to find any of his clothes.

She waits until sunset, but when he still doesn't appear, she gives up for the day. She's exhausted and covered in soot. And she just wants to sleep. But she still doesn't know where to find more sheets, so she decides to clean off in the bay first.

She strips down to nothing, strangely paranoid that he's watching her. But then she remembers he's already seen everything anyway.

The water is cold and it feels nice against her aching muscles. She's taken short baths before, but tonight she’s decided to use some of the soap she found in what was left of the kitchens. She’s sure it was meant for dishes, but she doesn’t care.

Over the past few weeks, she’s managed to salvage a hutch with a few drawers that she uses for clothes and a tall, narrow cabinet that she’s stocked full of as much cleaning products she could find. Aside from the first day, when she’d indulged in washing on the shore, she hasn’t wanted to waste any of her precious resources. She knows she’s going to be here a long, long time. So she’s going to have to make what she has last.

So tonight is the first time she really feels like she can get clean. She’s standing in water up to her neck, lathering up her hair when she feels something touch her leg. Which is utterly terrifying at night on an alien planet. But she takes a few deep breaths and tells herself that it’s just fish. She is safe.

“Do not move,” a voice comes from shore, and that startles her more than anything else. After three weeks of silence, she feels like she’s forgotten what talking sounds like.

She makes a really embarrassing ‘eep’ sound and tries to sink farther into the water while she spins in place, trying to see where his voice is coming from on shore. She loses grip of her soap underwater and moves her arms, trying to feel for it.

“I said not to move,” he hisses, and for the first time, she realizes what he’s said.

“Why?” she asks, pushing her sudsy hair off her forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“It is dangerous to venture into the Sea of Marmora[10] at night,” he explains and she feels every terrible, irrational fear imaginable about sea monsters come crashing over her.

“What is it?” she asks, still trying to locate him in the dark.

“A serpent,” he responds and she hears nothing but the gentle lap of the tidal waves against the beach.

“Where are you?” she asks, resisting the urge to tuck her feet up. She knows free floating is probably a bad idea.

“Behind you,” he answers, and a chill runs up her spine.

“Are you messing with me?”

“I assure you, Lady Jane, the threat is all too real,” he answers as she slowly tip-toes back around to face the bay. And now that she has, she can see him a few feet off to her right, standing just farther out than she is.

“What should I do?” she asks, trying to keep the hysteria from her voice. But Jaws really messed her up when she was little. And she feels like all her old nightmares are about to come to life.

“I am going to slowly walk to you, and together we will head towards shore, away from the dock behind you.”

“It’s under the dock, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says just as he comes up beside her. And it’s only a testament to how terrified she is that she doesn’t pull away when he reaches out underwater to guide her along beside him, and his hands graze over her bare breasts. His hands quickly come to rest on her side instead, his fingers wrapped around her ribs. “My Lady, are you undressed?” he asks and she kind of finds it hilarious how uptight he seems to be about nudity.

“Yes,” she says and reaches to steady herself against him only to find that he’s fully clothed. “I was taking a bath,” she explains, as if her soapy hair isn’t enough of a giveaway.

“Wouldn’t such an activity be better suited to the hot springs?”

And she rolls her eyes so hard, she feels like she may have dislodged something in her socket. “If I knew there were hot springs, I would’ve used them. But I didn’t know. And you couldn’t be bothered to show your face for the past three weeks, so… I improvised.”

“Next time, improvise with more care.”

“How was I supposed to know there was a sea monster lurking out here? I’m not from this planet.” She can actually feel the exact moment her anxiety overtakes her rational thought. She feels her breath start to come in short gasps, and she feels like she can’t get enough air in her lungs. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know anything about this place. I couldn’t even find shampoo. I’m washing my hair with dish soap. I’ll probably go bald.” She knows she’s rambling. She knows she should probably stop, because she’s going to get them both eaten at this rate. But she’s having a hard time convincing the rest of her to slow down.

Then her hands start to shake, and she is suddenly freezing. He’s gliding them along through the water, but she feels like it’s getting deeper and she can’t touch the bottom anymore and she’s never been a strong swimmer.

Oh god, oh god. She’s going to die. She’s going to be eaten by some alien sea creature, naked and covered in dish soap.

And just when she feels like she’s about to go under, like the current of the waves are pulling her down and she’s going to drown, she feels him shift his grip of her. Instead of his arm wrapping around her back and settled on her side, he pushes her forward and spins her around so her chest is flush against his.

Instinctively, her legs wrap around his waist, to keep her head above water. He keeps one hand on the back of her head and the other around her waist underwater. And all of this happens without breaking his stride or making a single ripple.

“You will not go bald,” he says after a few more steps and she can feel his chest rumble against hers when he speaks. And she feels like she can breathe again. She times her inhales and exhales with his. Slow and steady.

“Good to know,” she says, too mortified to say much else. She can feel the water start to get shallower, less of her back submerged with each step. They get to about waist deep before she feels steady enough to walk on her own. But he is now supporting all her weight above water, so when she loosens her legs she sort of slides down him, until her legs meet with the water, and then she can stand on her own.

But in doing that, she is basically dragging the entire front part of her very naked body down his. And she can _feel_ him against her front.

“Oh,” she says, more surprised than anything.

“Apologies,” he mumbles and staunchly darts his eyes away. She tries to pull away from him, take the last few steps to shore on her own, but his hand on her elbow stops her. “Slowly,” he instructs, and she does as she’s told. She can regret her life choices later; right now she just wants to get to safety.

“Are you injured?” he asks once they are out of the water.

“No. I’m fine. Sorry about that. I don’t do well in water,” she tries to explain. To which he just nods.

Once on shore, Jane tries to find her clothes. She knows she laid them near the water. But that was a while ago; they could have been swept out by now. Or, more likely, they are closer to the dock. And she doesn’t even care that she’s on land now - she’s not going anywhere near that thing. She can get new clothes. She didn’t like those ones anyway.

“Um, thanks,” she says, trying her best to place her hands strategically and praying that it’s too dark for him to see much. “So, about that magical favor?” she asks casually.

“Speak,” he says and she guesses that's his way of agreeing. He had said ‘anytime for any reason’. She hated to waste it on this, but she really needs to talk with him, but she can't - not like this. And who knows when she’ll get another chance.

“Clothes?”

“Very well,” he nods. “Turn away.”

“Loki--”

“This is my only condition,” he snaps.

“Fine!” She sighs and turns around, crossing her arms. “Blue powers activate,” she mumbles.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” she snaps.

She wonders why he isn't saying anything, but then she feels something strange. It's almost like that feeling she gets when she thinks someone is following her. It's a paranoid feeling that manifests as a chill that runs the length of her spine. And when it passes, she looks down to see herself outfitted in a beautiful and practical blue tunic and linen pants. “Thanks,” she finally breathes, once the feeling passes.

“We are even, Jane Foster.”

“So we are.” She grins down at her new outfit and tries not to worry too much about how she’s going to destroy it digging through the ruins. “I guess I know how to get your attention from now on,” she jokes.

“I--”

“Was hiding?” she cuts him off, and she feels self righteous enough to put her hands on her hips.

“Was busy,” he corrects her. She scoffs.

“Yeah, okay. Real busy, doing what?”

“Making sure you don’t get yourself killed, apparently.”

“And the rest of the time? When I wasn’t in mortal danger? And I can’t die; that’s what the apple was for, wasn’t it?” She remembers, randomly sometimes, that she’s nearly indestructible now.

“The venom of Jormungand makes you wish for death,” he says darkly, and Jane has a feeling there’s more to that story than she knows.

“You sound like you know from personal experience,” she points out.

“I was a child,” he answers. And for a while she thinks that’s it, he won’t continue. But after a few more seconds and squinting in the dark, she sees him take a deep breath before he speaks again. “Frigga had only recently begun to teach me her magic. I was unskilled and Thor and his band of dimwitted friends were taunting me, trying to goad me into performing tricks for them.”

And for some reason, she’d never really considered the fact that his magic was a skill. Something he’d learned. But as soon as he said it had been Frigga who taught him, it felt like some piece of the ‘Loki’ puzzle was slotting into place.

“I lost my temper,” he explains, and she can almost see him as a boy, red-faced and on the verge of screaming. “Odin said it was only fair, if I’d summoned it, I should be the one to banish it. He refused to help. But I couldn’t do it. I hadn’t the skill or power. When I tried, it escaped into the sea, dragging me down with it. I thought I would die. I prayed for death when its fang sunk into my side. I’ve never known such pain before. Until…” his voice trails off and she remembers what Thanos said, about a serpent.

“Thanos?” she asks.

“I don’t know how he knew. But when I was in the void, before I gave in, back when I still resisted him, he summoned it. Bound me under its yawning fangs, and let the venom drip onto me--”

“Hey,” she calls, taking a step towards him, trying to bring him back from the memory. She didn't see it before; she’d been too busy with her own freakout, but now that she is out of the water and thinking clearly, she can see all the signs of panic in him. “Thank you.”

Actually, the closer she examines him, the worse he looks. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. And he seems paler than he did before. She finds she has the urge to touch him, just a reassuring pat, to help him come back to the present. But she refrains, unable to figure out exactly how to go about comforting him. “I had a few things I wanted to ask you. You want to come back with me? I’ll light a fire and we can forget all about sea monsters?”

\--

He’s sure she is unaware of how the proposition sounds to his ears. But her offer to help him forget about the Jormungand makes him think of the mindless oblivion found in coitus.

He blames the relentless dreams he cannot escape. He's gone days without sleep for fear of them. Of what they are doing to him.

He had been doing so well to avoid her. It seems cruel that the one time he lets his guard down to save her from herself, she should be naked and wrapped in his arms. Thanos himself could not have planned this torture more perfectly. He could still feel the heat of her skin when they were in the water together, her coiled around him, breasts pressed against his chest, and bobbing gently with the water as they walked.

No, this is not a good idea. He should retreat back to his camp. Put as much distance between him and her as possible. He should leave her to find her own way back.

He should not care if she was bitten. He should not have rushed headlong into the open water, knowing full well what lurked below the surface. He should have left her to her fate.

But her hair is a tangled mass of drying soap, and he cannot deny the fact that she affects him. The thought of her body, the way she’d surrendered to him - there is little else to occupy his mind lately. Perhaps it would not be so bad to give in. Just this once.

Knowing he will regret this in the morning he says, “Or I could show you the hot springs, so you can wash out your hair.”

And even in the starlight, he can see her smile.

\--

He leads her along the shore, towards the outer limits of the city. And on foot, it’s a long walk. Then he starts to head inland, towards the foothills.

About thirty minutes later, she sees something blue in the distance. “What is that?” she asks, pointing towards it.

“The hot springs. There is a type of tiny life form that emits light that lives in the warm waters.”

“Like a bioluminescent bacteria?”

“Bacteria?” he asks, and she almost laughs.

“It’s what we call unicellular microorganisms,” she explains. “What do you call them?”

“ _Eilítill_ [11],” he says and she chuckles. To which he just raises an eyebrow in question.

“It sounds like ‘a little’,” she explains.

“I believe _eilítill_ is partly the origin of your ‘little’.”

And that stops her in her tracks. “Oh, I guess that makes sense. Ancient Norse had a lot of influence on German. And English is a germanic language. Like ‘Thursday’ for Thor.”

“And ‘Friday’ for Frigga,” he points out.

“Oh, right.” She recalls reading something to that effect a few years ago. “No ‘Odin’ or ‘Loki’ day?” she teases.

“I believe you call them ‘Wednesday’ and ‘Saturday,’” he answers without hesitation and Jane feels a little silly, arguing with the literal namesake of one of the days of the week.

“Oh,” is all she can think to say.

She realizes once they reach the springs that it’s not just one pool, but a series of them, all about the size of a hot tub. “Are these natural formations?” she wonders.

“The pools have been dug out, but the spring that feeds them is heated by the city’s core.”

“I didn’t realize Asgard had geothermal activity,” she comments, leaning over to inspect the pool closest to her. She sees all the way to the bottom of the pool with how much light the bacteria generate.

“There is a towering mountain peak below the sea, _Hlidskjalf_. Much of our heat is produced there,” he says and Jane’s pretty sure she’ll never be able to pronounce that right.

“There's so much I don't know about this place. I hate being ignorant,” she pouts. “Isn't there a national library somewhere? I thought the Hall of Science might have some information but I don't know where it is anymore, under all this rubble.”

“The Hall of Science will have most of what you wish to know. Though the Hall of Epics will have some of the history you may require for context. Your bed is very near the ruins of it. But I doubt you will be able to make much sense of it, without Allspeak.”

“That's your translation magic, right?” she asks and decides to sit on the lip of the nearest pool while they talk. She's too afraid of trying to rinse off because it might ruin their rhythm. He's being uncharacteristically helpful at the moment and she doesn't even care about the soap in her hair if it means he'll tell her what she wants to know.

“Yes. Without it, our language will be unintelligible,” he responds and settles across from her, removing his shoes and rolling up his pants to submerge his feet in the warm water. Where they stir up the bacteria with their movements, the bacteria glow brighter for a moment before dimming again. The effect is like sunlight reflecting off rippling ocean waves.

“Can I learn Allspeak or obtain it?” she asks. To which he only looks puzzled. “Wait, if it's magic, then it shouldn't work anymore,” she points out. “But you can still understand me just fine.”

“I speak your language,” he says, as if that should have been obvious. “I learned centuries ago.”

“Oh, so you can't read the books either?”

“Of course I can read,” he says, sounding horrified. “What kind of education do you think I received?”

“I don't know,” she sighs, “how to do magic and punch things, I guess?” She shrugs and she can see his mood shift from annoyed to amused.

“I must have missed the ‘punch things’ lesson,” he comments. And it occurs to her that he's playing along. “Though I did quite well in the ‘stabbing things’ class.”

“That, I believe. I always liked the ‘build shit’ classes, myself. And ‘read stuff,’” she explains. And it's a strange sensation, to be sharing part of herself with him. “Can we…” she starts to ask, before she realizes she has no idea how to finish that sentence. What does she want? A truce? A deal? A friendship? She wants help. She wants to be able to get in contact with him when she needs to. She want a little stability. She almost asks him if they can be honest with each other, before she stops herself.

“Can we what?” he asks, and she can practically _hear_ his defenses rising.

“I don't know, exactly. Can we be like this more? Just normal? Talk. Share. Do things? Am I allowed to talk to you? I didn't even know where you were. I thought, maybe, you left. I need things. Supplies and tools. I want to make a better shelter. What's going to happen when it rains? I just, this isn't my world. I need… help.” She finally works her way around to the crux of the issue. “I can't do this on my own.”

“I thought it was better to make my presence scarce,” he admits and she sort of understands.

“I'm not saying we always have to stick together. I'm fine with doing my own thing most of the time. But it would be better if I could ask you things sometimes.”

“‘Things’?” he asks.

“You know, like ‘is it safe to take a bath here’ or ‘where can I find paper’. Things like that.” She shrugs again. “Plus, it's so quiet all the time. I miss talking.”

“I prefer the silence,” he says and for some reason she doesn't believe him. “But, perhaps, if you require my assistance, I could… come visit once in awhile.”

“Yeah. That would be good.” She nods, feeling very proud of herself. “You could teach me to read, show me where to find things, help me lift things,” she rattles off a list of just a few of the things she most recently thought it would have been nice to have him around for.

\--

It is clear to him she has put some thought into this proposal of hers. She expects his resistance. Which, at first, is instinctual. But the more he thinks on it, the less weight it carries for him. What purpose is solitude on a planet of two? And she, he begrudgingly admits to himself alone, is not the worst company. Even without the dreams, he must admit that she is not without her merits.

She is not dull or cruel. She is ignorant of many things. But what she lacks in knowledge she more than makes up for in curiosity. He can see it in her eyes at nearly all times. The wheels of thought rolling on; she is never not thinking.

She certainly seems more clever than other Migardians who have barely mastered rudimentary skills. She seems capable of much more than a typical human.

Even Thanos had seemed intrigued by her.

Which soothes his ego some. To know that his _interest_ was not unwarranted. He found that the time he spent trying to work her out was almost always to no avail. Because just when he thought he understood her, could predict her motivations, she would do something that took him by surprise.

And it is a novelty he has not thought to look for before. But it's no easy feat, to surprise a millennials-old god.

But she does so effortlessly.

Like the way she meets his gaze and tugs her new tunic over her head. She must know what she's doing. The way she strips bare and sinks into the hot water with a guttural sigh, the lights of the eilítill casting her fair skin with their bluish lights.

He swallows at the sight, trying to look away. And failing. It is exactly as he has dreamed of her since their first night together.

“I should leave you,” he says and scoots back, drawing his feet from the pool.

“Or you could stay,” she says and he imagines a hopeful look in her eyes. He wonders if she dreams too. Is that why she comes to him now? Was this Thanos’ plan?

And he wants to. So much so that he feels like he might die if he doesn't touch her. The appeal of her, of allowing himself to unravel between her legs is more enticing than life itself in that moment. Even if it's just to escape the accursed dreams for one night.

But this feels precarious. Like a maze he doesn't know how to navigate. If he's not careful, he may soon be in danger of falling into her trap.[12]

He knows who’s feeding these delusions.

But then she dips her body below the surface of the pool and he can't help but stare. And when she emerges, her breasts glisten with the reflective water, her cheeks are flushed pink, and the illusion is wholly distracting.

He finds himself moving towards her without intending to. She moves nearer to him, leaning into his outreached hands. And when he finally touches her, he feels a physical sensation of relief. Her breasts are hypnotizing. The way they feel under his palm, the way they move when she breathes.

And in an instant, he loses himself to her. To her skin, her eyes, her hair. She is a siren and he is ready throw himself against the sea cliffs if it means getting closer to her.

But that’s exactly the problem. This is what Thanos _wants_. He wants Loki to tear himself apart. He wants Loki to be weakened and diminished. He wants them to become the worst torture of all. And Loki is falling for it. He is letting Thanos win. And that, above all else, he cannot allow. He will not.

“No,” he says, closing his eyes and shaking his head, trying to shake off the spell she's cast over him. “Enjoy the bath.” He forces himself to withdraw his hand from her body, the act of which is so disappointing it causes him physical pain.

\--

“Thanks,” she calls as he disappears into the dark. And she feels weird, strangely disappointed but also relieved. She'd been willing to, of course. But it had also been a strategic choice. She needed him, he didn't need her. But she thought, maybe, if she could offer him a reason to want to seek her out, he might be more willing. And it hadn't been awful, the sex. Actually, it had been pretty good. He seemed to enjoy it too - the way he touched her, the way he’d reacted.

So, she could give him something and he could give her some much needed pointers for surviving on Asgard. It seemed like a pretty mutually beneficial arrangement.

And he'd seemed interested. The way his eyes zeroed in on her breasts, and he'd licked his lips. His hands had been cold, just like last time. But he forced himself to leave. And she couldn't help but wonder why? What was he hoping to gain by not sleeping with her? It's not like she'd made any real stipulations of their agreement. It was just an offer.

One she really thought he'd take.

Confused and frustrated, she turns her attention away from thoughts of him and back to the glorious feeling of getting clean.

The hot water is even nicer on her aching muscles. And it feels like heaven to finally wash out her hair. But halfway through rinsing she worries that the soap may harm the bacteria.

“Shit,” she curses and very nearly launches herself out of the water. She doesn't want to kill them. So she sits next to the pool for a while, dripping wet, and watches the glowing water. It doesn't _look_ like they've decreased in intensity or quantity. She looks at another pool for reference, but they're all pretty much the same.

Then she swirls her hand through the pool she'd been in, to see if they brighten when agitated like they did before.

They do.

So either the soap doesn't effect them or the effects will only be noticeable in the long term.

She wishes she'd thought to ask him before he left. But she reasons that the damage is already done. And he wouldn't have taken her here if it was going to kill them. And the Asgardians made these pools for a reason. Bathing here was probably pretty common.

Having talked herself into it, she allows herself to sink back into the warm water and enjoys the rest of her bath.

She will worry about the rest of it tomorrow.

After all, she has nothing but time now.

\--

Thankfully, she does not seek him out for some time. Another dozen days, at least, pass with no indication that she requires his aid. He occasionally checks in on her, to make sure he knows where she is, in case she should get into trouble again. So it is mildly alarming when he loses track of her for several days.

She seems to have abandoned her camp as she begins a more in-depth search of the ruins. She is looking for supplies, he knows. Books and knowledge. She is planning something.

When he does find her, he sees that she has cleared a small stairwell that leads to some of the minister’s chambers under the city’s hall. She will find nothing of use there. Just accounting ledgers and records of commerce. There is no trouble to be found in numbers, he reasons, and leaves her to it.

He has preparations of his own to make. With each new day gone, they are drawing closer to the season of the Storms. And he knows they will need to be ready.

\--

It’s another six weeks before Jane see Loki again. She’s sure her foraging would have gone faster if she could have asked him where things used to be. But after that awkward night at the hot springs, she can’t really bring herself to go looking for him again. So, instead, she makes a map. She finds piles of blank paper in some of the offices she found underground a few weeks ago. There are ink wells and pens too. It takes a while for her to get the hang of writing with real ink. It’s slow and messy, but she’s getting better at it.

The books she finds all seem to be book keeping of some kind; the royal treasury, maybe. She takes what she thinks will be useful and adds the location to her map. She marks where the kitchens used to be. The weapon’s vault where she stores the things she doesn’t want to get wet (not that it’s rained at all), and her campsite.

Loki told her she was near the Hall of Epics, so she spends some time looking around for books, but only finds a handful. Whatever they used to keep records of their epics, it didn’t appear to be bound books. But she doesn’t see any scrolls either. There’s a lot of artwork on crumbling walls though, including the one she uses to mark each day. And she realizes she’s defacing what’s left of Asgard’s history. Of course they kept epics as art. And the more she investigates, the more relics she finds. Smashed pottery and torn tapestries.

She’s been sleeping in a graveyard of Asgardian history.

She switches to marking the days in a small, pocket-size book she makes by cutting up paper and sewing it together with bands of leather she removes from what looks like a guard’s uniform. She uses thin pieces of wood she scavenges from a broken hutch as covers. This book, along with her “field” map, become essential to her everyday outings.

She also fashions a bag out of scraps of clothing that she can’t wear. She has a few of them, a large one for carrying books over her shoulder and a smaller one she wears across her chest with things like her book, map, a pen, extra ink and paper, and the outline of her plan.

She writes her plan in code, to keep Loki from reading it. She’s sure it’s not very sophisticated, and she worries that he might be able to crack her code, given he seems to be pretty intelligent. But there’s not much she can do about that currently. She’s not a cryptographer.

She transfers most of her supplies to the vault once she starts spending more and more time in the city. From there, she begins to build smaller caches of supplies around the city. She brings along some essentials; paper and a bar of soap, things like that. And she marks each one’s location on her map.

Which allows her to spend more time exploring, rather than going back to the bay each night. Though whenever she does get back to her camp, she’s always grateful for her bed. She’s found several more beds, some even sleepable in her exploration. But most of the rooms in the castle seem to be in the same wing, which is - of course - nowhere near where she’s going to go.

Her eventual goal is to get to the Hall of Science. She knows it was mostly on the lowest level of the civic center, but she still can’t seem to find it. She thought the World Tree skylight might be exposed because of the destruction, which would have meant all she had to do was spot the top of a tree canopy emerging from a hole in the ground. Then she could have climbed down. But so far she’s walked all over the public district of the capitol and hasn’t been able to find it or an entrance.

Which is where she is when she feels the first drops of rain.

\--

The days have been growing colder and Loki can smell the Storms on the wind. Even knowing the season was coming, he is caught unprepared by how quickly they’ve come down from their nests in Cragmouth. They are early this year. Much, much too early. He realizes too late that if they do not come today, then it will be tomorrow. He must find Jane now and get them out of the city.

He searches for her at the vault, where she’s begun to leave some of her precious supplies. But even those have been dwindling at an alarming rate. He wonders what she could possibly have done with so much soap. He knows she has not been back to her camp for some time, and she has stopped marking the days on the wall so he cannot be sure how long it’s been. He quickly uses the magic of his illusion to transport whatever he can from the vault to the temporary shelter he’s been setting up. There’s nothing to be done about the rest she’s hidden. This will have to do.

He sets out for the ruins of the palace, where she seems to spend most of her time exploring. He supposes the destroyed homes of the typical Aesir would offer little in the ways of resisting Thanos. Though, he’s not sure what the palace could offer her that it could not them.

He spends most of the morning looking for a clue to her trail. But there is evidence of her wherever he looks. Small bare footprints in the dirt that reminds him he should find her a suitable pair of shoes. She seems to have given up the lacey pair she wore at their wedding. He can’t really blame her for that. But her feet seem very small; he worries that the only shoes that will fit her will be those of a child. And she has yet to explore the education district higher in the hills.

The longer the day progresses, the more looming the skies become. And by the time the sun is close to setting, he hears the first crack of thunder in the distance and sees a streak of lightning.

He feels almost frantic now. Where is she? Where could she have gone? Has she seen the Storms and looked for cover? Has Thor told her of the Storms of Asgard? Does she know to seek shelter?

And he realizes now that separating was a foolish move. He should never have let her wander so far without a means of communication.

Just as the first of the Storms pass over the mountains, headed for the meadow just outside the city, he abandons any pretense of calm and begins running through the ruins, shouting her name.

\--

“Jane!”

Jane pops her head up and listens. She could have sworn she’d just heard someone call her name. It must have been Loki. Who else would be calling her?

But she’s a little preoccupied at the moment, so she ignores him. She needs to get her mattress into the vault before it starts pouring. And judging by the rain clouds she can see rolling in, it’s going to be soon.

Whatever he wants will just have to wait.

\--

“Jane!” he shouts again, cupping his hands around his mouth and bellowing her name.

The Storm is nearly on top of the city now, and he can already see several more rolling down from the mountains.

If he could just use his magic, this would be a trivial matter. There is always the alternative - to tap into his illusion charm again. But he refrains from doing so, mostly because he’s not sure how much power is actually available to him, especially after already using it once today.

“Jane!” he screams again.

“No need to yell,” he hears from the other side of a pile of rubble and his relief is nearly suffocating. “I’m right here.”

“Where have you been!?” he yells and runs a hand through his hair in an effort not to leap over the debris and grab her by the arm. “I called for you.”

“Annoying, isn’t it?” she asks and as he clears the debris. He sees now that she’s carrying - or more accurately, dragging her mattress on her back. She is hunched over and he can see several homemade satchels slung over her shoulders, loaded down with various things. Books and parchment. Some of her dish soap, no doubt.

“Of all the petty, ignorant, foolish things to do! Why did you not respond?”

“I was busy,” she says and he can hear the smugness in her tone. She’s enjoying this; the parallel of the last time they met it was her who’d been shouting his name and he who’d professed being unavailable.

“Forget this,” he says, tipping the heavy mattress off her back where is flops backwards onto another pile of what used to be a column.

“Hey!” she shouts and stumbles back at the sudden loss of weight on her back. “That’s my bed! I need to move it to the vault so it doesn’t get wet.”

“Leave it,” he insists and takes her wrist, dragging her behind him.

“Stop. Loki, stop!” she screams, yanking her arm out of his grasp. “What’s going on?” And there is something about the brightness in her eyes that calms him. She is beginning to sense his urgency.

“The Storms,” he says, nodding at the clouds that roil overhead. “We need to seek shelter immediately.”

“Why? Isn’t it just rain and lightning?” she asks, but he can see that she’s understood her mistake. These are no ordinary clouds.

“No,” he assures her before he takes her elbow and begins to walk them out of the city. “These are the Storms of Cragmouth,” he explains and it’s a strange sensation, for her not to react to the name. All citizens of Asgard are raised to know the peril of these Storms. Yet she has no frame of reference for it. To her, it is just another name of a place she does not know.

“What do they rain?” she asks, eyeing the heavy rain clouds overhead.

“It is not _what_ they rain, but _how_ they rain,” he tries to answer carefully. He is mindful of their watchful eyes and keen ears.

“How?”

“Please, I need you to trust me now. We need to move quickly. No more talking. They are listening.”

\--

There are all kinds of alarm bells going off in her head now. “My things!” she says once she realizes that things getting wet is the least of her concerns. “I need to get my things.”

“There is no time.”

“No, I’ve spent so long gathering supplies. Will they be alright?”

“Doubtful,” he responds and she’s torn between screaming at him and kicking him. But, if possible, he looks even worse than he did a month and a half ago when he rescued her from the serpent. And she finds her anger doesn't stick like it should when he looks like he does. Like he's ready to keel over any second.

“Why didn’t you warn me earlier? My books, my calculations!” she whines.

“You did it once, you can do it again.”

“I’ve been working for two months already.” She pulls away from him and starts digging through her bags that she’s still carrying. And maybe she's imagining it, but he doesn't seem as strong as he did before. She can't imagine him lifting huge chunks of rubble and tossing them around like he did that first night with how he moves now. What's going on with him, she wonders. “I don’t want to lose all that work,” she explains. She has a few of her handmade notebooks. But the one with the most work is back at the treasury office. She thought it would be safe underground.

“Why do you never listen!” he yells and something dark settles over Jane. A rage she hasn’t felt in a long time. Whatever misgivings she might have had about the state of him evaporates. She's had enough of his bullshit.

“This wouldn’t be happening if you weren’t such a coward,” she snaps.

“What did you say?” he asks, narrowing his eyes and clenching his hand into a fist at his side. And she can see it in him too, that shift to anger. She’s crossed a line. And right now, she couldn’t care less.

“You heard me. If you hadn’t been hiding from me for the last month, you could have helped me. Warned me about whatever the hell is freaking you out. But that would mean you’d have to actually interact with me, God forbid. I mean, am I really that awful? I _disgust_ you that much, that you can’t even give me the heads up that ‘Oh hey, Asgard has killer clouds’ or whatever the hell they are!”

He opens his mouth to say something. She’ll never know what, because he doesn’t even get the first word out before a bolt of lightning splits the air between them.

Jane is tossed backwards with the force of it. Her head smashes into a pile of jagged rocks, and she hears a snap in her side followed by pain. She feels tears spring to her eyes immediately. It hurts so much. She feels like she can’t breathe. Every breath is painful. She’s dizzy and nauseated, a sure sign of trauma.

She tries to move a hand to touch the back of her head to see if she’s bleeding. But she doesn’t get more than a few inches before the pain in her side flares up and she screams in agony. She can’t be sure, but she thinks she’s broken a rib or two. And there is something dripping on her neck and shoulders. She thinks it’s blood.

“Jane,” Loki calls, and she can’t even focus her eyes enough to see where he is. “Are you injured?” he asks. And it occurs to her that this is the third time he’s asked her that.

“Yes,” she struggles to speak through the pain. “I think I’m bleeding,” she cries.

“Stay there. Do not move. I’m coming to you.” And for some reason, that makes her feel a lot better. It shouldn’t, she knows. But it does. “Do not speak,” he warns in addition and this time, Jane decides she’s going to listen.

\--

Loki stands slowly, stretching out the pain in his hand where he landed on it. He’d been spared the brunt of the attack, which wasn’t surprising. She had been the one to insult the Storm. He wants to be mad at her for speaking so carelessly. But at the same time, he knows that she was unaware of the dangers. And he could not implicitly warn her without risking offending the Storms himself. They were such fickle things, so sensitive to the opinions of others. They were proud creatures who would retaliate with ruthless aggression at the slightest provocation. It was best not to speak of them at all. And he realizes she was right. He should have told her sooner. But he was too ashamed at the way he’d openly lusted after her at the pools. And he didn’t know what it meant, that she offered and he was so eager to partake. But he assumes there must have been some meaning in it, and rather than investigate what that might be, he felt it was more prudent to avoid it. That it was _safer_. To avoid _her_.

One entire side of her body is singed, and she appears to be having trouble breathing. He fears that she may begin to panic, as she did in the sea when he had to carry her. He has noticed that when she is truly alarmed, her breathing is the first to suffer.

“Where are your formulas?” he asks, squatting down beside her to check her injuries.

“The treasury,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Treasury?” he asks, unsure what she means. Asgard had no treasury.

“Underground.” She winces as he touches her side; he can tell that is the cause of most of her pain. “Books with numbers.”

And he understands; she means the minister’s chambers. He seeks to calm her, to reassure her, so she doesn’t succumb to panic. But he also hates the prospect of allowing her to see his true form. “Close your eyes,” he whispers so tenderly, he worries his fear has softened him.

She does so without protest and he is so thankful, he could kiss her. He doesn’t, but he wants to. Instead, he pools his power, strips it from his skin and commands it out - seeking the hidden place she has stored her precious calculations. He can’t be sure what she's hidden in the minister’s room, so he settles for transferring everything. Just to be safe.

He's not sure why he does it, why he risks the drain just to appease her. But something about her mangled body bothers him. More than that. It disturbs him, to see her bleeding and crying. It makes him reckless. Makes him use his magic to move every book in a library on the off chance that _one_ of them was hers.

It makes him reach out to touch her face; the blue of his skin is stark against hers. And where he glances her cheek, she winces.

He immediately pulls his hand away, mortified that he could have been so sentimental. “Your books are safe,” he reassures her when she opens her eyes. “Though you may lose the rest,” he warns.

“Thank you,” she whispers and he has to lean in closer to hear her.

He wants to say he's sorry, that he can't do more. That it was all he could do. But he doesn't. He just watches her for a moment, thinking. Planning. He knows he cannot transport them or even her. He is all but drained. He feels it like a physical fatigue. He knows now the limitations of such a pathetic source of magic. No, they will need to move on foot - and quickly.

Gently, he takes her face in his hands now that they've gone back to his charmed form. Carefully, he turns her face up to look him in the eyes. “We must go,” he says and sees from the agony in her expression that she understand the dilemma of that.

“I don’t think I can walk,” she admits.

“I will carry you,” he says and he can see some relief at his words. “But it will still be quite painful. And I must move quickly.”

She makes a small sobbing sound at the prospect of him jostling her. He does not envy her the pain she will feel. She has broken two of her middle ribs, so with each movement of her body, they grind together in her chest. “Just do it,” she begs as he considers how best to approach lifting her without moving her abdomen unduly.

“You may blackout,” he warns.

“Good,” she grunts and takes a shallow breath before he scoops her up against his chest.

And to his surprise, she does not cry out or faint. She just holds her breath, fists her hands, and allows a few silent tears to run down her cheeks. She is stronger than he gives her credit for. He wonders if Thanos knows the grit and measure that she is made of. He wonders if he would have done more to harm her if he’d known the kind of pain she was capable of enduring. Or perhaps it is because of Thanos that she is able to withstand this pain now. Had he conditioned her?

Overcome with a rage he doesn’t know how to tame, he tries to put it from his mind. Imagining her misery will do neither of them any good right now.

“Here we go,” he says and begins to move. He tries to be slow at first, to glide gently over the ground. But in the time it’s taken to get her up, there are three more Storms who have gathered around the smaller one that struck her. They grow more agitated as their numbers grow. And he’s sure the appearance of the ruined city has them in a tizzy.

They are the only ones on this entire planet, and he knows that they are going to target them with retribution for the destruction of their summer retreat.

At the first roll of thunder he hears, his picks up his pace. They are calling to each other, from the highlands down to the water, comparing notes. The thunder begins to pick up now. And there are a few lightning strikes in the city center, just over where the throne room used to sit.

They know Thor is dead.

They will be coming for him.

\--

Jane is doing her best to keep it together, but each step he takes feels like a knife slicing into her side. The pain is excruciating.

Then, all of a sudden, he begins to run. And if she thought the pain was bad before, it’s nothing compared to what it is now. And the faster he runs, the tighter he holds her.

She is audibly crying now, sobbing and letting out these little screams each time his foot meets the ground; she feels it in her side. She can swear her ribs must have broken the skin. She’s going to bleed out in his arms.

“Shhhhh,” he shushes her.

And she tries to stop herself, to keep from crying out. But it’s no use. She can’t hold in this much pain.

“Just,” she wheezes, “knock me out.” She thinks she hears him grunt, but she can’t be sure. “Please,” she begs. “Please.”

She feels him move his hands, adjusting his hold on her. And then there is an intense pressure on the side of her neck. Just over her carotid artery. And then there is nothing.

\--

She goes limp in his arms and Loki has to swallow back a mouthful of bile at the sensation of her lifeless body in his arms. Her limbs lose their rigidity and he has to hold onto her tighter to make sure he doesn’t do any more damage to her.

But she is, thankfully, no longer crying in pain. And without the sound of her whimpering, he’s free to pick up his pace. She is slight, but her body still begins to weigh in his arms the longer he runs. And she has the added weight of the bags that still hang off her shoulders and around her chest.

He would have prefered to take them off, but he knew he didn’t have the time or luxury of moving her when she was laying in that pile of rubble.

He has them all the way to the foothills in the time it takes for the rest of the drift[13] to make it down to the city. Once they’ve all gathered, he can feel the heat of their lightning from here. They bombard the ruins with an unending onslaught of strikes. One after another, two at a time, three at a time. Their thunder echoes off the mountains and rolls in seemingly endless procession up and down the city.

It’s a good thing the city is already destroyed, he thinks, or they would have done it for Thanos. In all his long years, he has never seen the Storms of Cragmouth wreak such havoc. They are relentless and vicious. And with each passing moment, they grow in size.

By the time he reaches the mouth of the Cage of Ages, they have expanded to cover the entirety of the valley, extended beyond the city even, well over the Sea of Marmora, nearly to the threshold of the Sea of Space. He has never seen the Storms grow so large so quickly before.

He passes through the barrier of the Cage of Ages and instantly feels the hairs on the back of his neck settle. There is so much electricity in the air tonight, he fears the Storms may tear themselves apart.

And it’s odd, but the woman laying in his arms reminds him of these Storms. Ready to tear herself apart at a chance for revenge. She seems to grow ever larger on the razor-thin line of his horizon, moving to overtake him. She sometimes seems like a force of nature. Too big to contain, too elusive to predict. She is volatile and _dangerous **[14]**_. And he only realized it too late. Because as he stares at her bruised and bloody face, he feels a twinge in his chest, like electricity that sparks in the air.

She really will burn him up. And he’s disappointed in himself for falling into this trap, even though he saw it coming. Did he honestly think he would survive this unscathed[15]?

\--

Jane wakes up sometime during the night and is immediately inundated with pain.

But before she can do much more than whimper and curl up on herself, Loki is tipping the contents of a bowl into her mouth.

“Drink,” he instructs and she does.

It’s bitter and she hopes it's some sort of pain medicine. By the time she’s emptied the bowl, her head feels heavy and her eyes start to droop. “Thanks,” she mumbles and lets the world fade to black.

\--

She spends the next two days in and out. He lets her drink the sleeping tonic he brought along from the royal apothecary stores. Outside the cave, the Storms rage on. Day after day, there is no relenting. The whole of the city is likely underwater by now. It was not unusual for the sea to rise during the Storm season. Only this time, there was no defenses to keep the water back.

He ventures out a few times a day to check on the weather, always careful to stay just outside the barrier. But it’s hard to make out anything in the dark. The sun and starlight cannot even penetrate the cloud cover. There are just flashes of lightning in the distance, specks of light in the dark.

On the afternoon of the third day, she finally wakes without grunting in pain. And he takes that as a good sign. The apple has done its job. She is nearly healed. The cut on her head was small; he simply wiped her neck and shoulder of blood once he had her lying down. Keeping her asleep had allowed her ribs to heal.

“How do you feel?” he asks, kneeling down beside her.

“Better,” she says and takes a deep breath. He can already see she is in considerably less pain. “How long was I out?”

“Two days,” he answers and takes a step back, allowing her to look around.

“Where are we?”

“The Cave of Ages,” he says. “The mountains above the city,” he explains further and she nods.

“So, what happened?”

“The Storms came down early,” he rushes to explain. Because he still feels an unpleasant sensation of guilt when he considers how vulnerable he left her. “I was making preparations for us to move. I thought we had more time.”

“The storms?”

“They normally reside in the valley between the mountain ranges, Cragmouth. But they regularly come down to the city. It was not my intention to leave you unprotected. And I could not warn you without risking offending them. They are proud creatures with a wicked sense of retribution. Quick tempered and overly sensitive.” He shakes his head. “Wholly unreasonable.”

“They’re alive?”

“Yes. And they have a particular dislike for me.”

She stares at him for a moment before her face shifts and she smiles. “Figures,” she remarks and he thinks he should be offended at the inference. But then he remembers that was her point, so he refrains from arguing back. “How long do they last?”

“A week, typically. But I have never seen them grow to be so large before. They are quite angry, it seems. I doubt they will retreat in the typical time.”

“Why are they so mad?” she asks and moves to sit up, wincing slightly when she turns her bad side.

“Slowly,” he says, offering a hand to help her. She accepts and for some reason, that makes him feel better. “They loved Thor. He used to play with them. My mother used to say they only came out of hibernation to see him.”

“Oh,” she remarks sadly and looks away again, examining the cave. “But we’re safe here?”

“The Cave of Ages is a sacred site. It is shielded by a protective barrier that is eons old. Since before the time of Odin, or his father. This is where future kings of Asgard are sequestered before their coronation. There is no safer place in all the nine realms,” he reassures her.

“Why didn’t we come here sooner?” she asks, and he cannot fault her for it. She does not understand the terrible treason he has already committed, simply by seeking refuge here when it was a dire emergency. He did not come to the decision to hide here lightly.

“This is a sacred place,” he tries to explain. “A holy place,” he tries again in language he thinks she may understand more readily.

“You feel bad we’re here, don’t you?”

“This is an ancient site. The Cage of Ages existed before Asgard.”

“The city?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “The Realm.”

\--

“How can a cave be older than the planet?” Jane asks, but she has a feeling the answer is going to be ‘magic’.

“Asgard is made of two parts. The Realm Eternal, made up of the city and the land that surrounds it. Beyond that is the Sea of Space. But beneath us,” he demonstrates by holding one arm parallel with the ground, and draws what looks like an upside down mountain on the bottom side, “is the Realm Below. The Cave of Ages is the doorway to the Realm Below.”

“Are you saying there’s a mountain on the other side of the world?”

“Asgard is not a globe, as Midgard is. It is a plane. With an above and below. I told you of the peak, Hlidskjalf,” he reminds her and she realizes she’s been thinking about Asgard all wrong. It wasn’t an underwater mountain range he was talking about.

“Like a galactic plane[16],” she marvels.

“I suppose,” he shrugs.

“Wait, I thought there was no magic here.” She remembers Thanos’ punishment. “How can this cave have a ‘barrier’?”

“The Cave of Ages is older than magic,” he answers and she can't help herself. She rolls her eyes.

“So… you don't know,” she surmises. “So, we’re stuck for a while?” she asks.

“For the time being,” he nods. “Once the Storms have gone back to Cragmouth we can go back to the city.”

“Should we try to leave?”

“Leave?” he says, confused. “Leave the city?”

“No, Asgard,” she laughs. “You know ways to travel between worlds without a bridge. Should we leave?” She's thought about this before. If he could take them somewhere else.

“He would know,” Loki says. “Surely you understand this is meant to be our prison. And these,” he holds up his hand with his ring, “the chains.”

“I know, I just thought--”

“No, you didn’t think,” he snaps and she feels foolish. “Have you tried removing it?” he asks, getting more and more agitated.

“Y-yes,” she admits. And for some reason she feels ashamed. Like wanting to wash her hands was so terrible. It's not like she's tried to throw it away in a fit of disgust. Not exactly. Though she has a feeling that's how he'll take it anyway.

“And?” he prompts.

“ _And_ it won't come off.”

“Because this is our punishment. Tied together. Stuck here. It is immutable. Our marriage and our home,” he explains and she doesn't understand the distress it seems to cause him. Is it guilt, she wonders? Having to live on the planet he coveted, ruling with no subjects[17]?

“Okay, I was wrong,” she gives in. “I’m just trying to think of solutions.”

“Solutions to what? This is not something that you can fix. This is not a device you can tinker with. This is fate,” he announces, as if that should be enough to shut her down.

“I don’t believe in fate,” she says, wrapping her arms around her legs, bringing her knees to her chest.

“Then you are even more foolish than I thought,” he sighs and gets up.

“Maybe,” she admits, resting her cheek on her knees. “But at least I'm free.”

He doesn't respond. She has a feeling he doesn't agree.

\--

After so long spent in isolation, Loki finds it difficult to adapt to living in such close quarters with someone else. It also doesn't help that the Storms haven't relented at all in the five days they've been in the Caves. Or that his dreams seemed to have increased in severity and frequency. He suspects her proximity is the cause.

He's glad he had the foresight to set up separate sleeping quarters. The Caves are more like large cavernous rooms. There is a grand entrance where she likes to sit behind the barrier and watch the rain. And branching off from the main room are three smaller rooms, tucked around corners for privacy. He sleeps in the room farthest from hers. But it does little to dispel his nightly ritual of waking up in a cold sweat.

After those first few days when he was nursing her, he hasn't spoken to her. He thinks she is punishing him, at first. Purposefully ignoring him. But the way she scurries around, always trying to keep a room between them, he worries it may be worse than that.

He even tries magicking her a mountainous pile of soap by way of an apology. Which doesn't seem to work. He then tries stacks of raw paper and wells of ink. He doesn't draw attention to it. Merely waits for her to leave the room before performing the spell. But when she returns to see the new cache she only eyes him warily before going back to ignoring him.

In one final attempt, before he does the unthinkable, he makes her a pair of shoes. He knows she has none. But she still walks around barefoot and it’s beginning to drive him mad.

Finally, when he can stand the silence no more, he blurts out, “You unnerve me,” on their seventh day together.

She looks up from where she'd been scribbling in one of her pads, as if she's trying to make sure that it was him who’s spoken. “Okay,” she says unsurely. “I'm sorry?”

“The reason I did not warn you sooner. You do not disgust me. You unnerve me,” he wishes to clarify. He realizes their fight before the Storm was some time ago. But it's been eating at him. And every time he looks at her and sees the branching scar that creeps up her neck to just under her ear and down her arm, he is reminded of it. Of the look on her face just before she was struck.

He is familiar with lightning scars. He's seen enough of them to know their distinct design. He even had a few of them himself, in his youth.

“I get it, okay? I won't bug you anymore. When the storm is over, I'll go do my thing and you do yours. I'll be fine,” she responds and he is aggravated that she seems to be missing the point.

“That night,” he says quickly, before he loses his nerve. “At the hot springs, I wanted to stay.”

She finally puts her pen down and looks at him with those large, calculating eyes. Like she's evaluating him. Appraising him. “Then why didn't you?”

“Do you…” he begins, unsure of how to go about asking. “Do you dream… of me?” She narrows her eyes, and he struggles to read her expression.

“Not really,” she answers after a second. “I mean, I'm sure you're in the mix sometimes. But you usually don't play a featured role. Why?” she asks and this is what he’d feared. “Do you dream of me?”

“Yes,” he answers truthfully; it would be embarrassing to try and lie now. She must already suspect the answer, given his strange question.

“What about?”

“It doesn't matter,” he says quickly. But he should know better than to think ambiguity would be enough to dissuade her curiosity. It seems to be her most dominating trait, besides her obstinacy.

“Then why didn't you stay? Why are you always avoiding me?” she presses the issue and Loki feels like he's at his limit. Something has to give.

“I don't know what you want,” he confesses. It seems his closely guarded honesty, ultimately, is his weakest link. Better that than to admit that Thanos has been influencing him with inappropriate dreams. “You are impossible to read. I don't know how to predict you. I have never been comfortable with things I can't anticipate.”

“If you can't anticipate a person’s actions it makes them harder to manipulate,” she points out.

“That is true. I will not deny it. But it's more than that. I cannot protect myself if I don't know what to expect.” He wishes this were easier. But honesty does not come naturally to him. Years of subterfuge have made him ill-equipped for such circumstances.

“I'm on your side,” she says, shaking her head. “You can trust me.”

“I don't trust anyone,” he insists and feels no guilt for the disappointment in her eyes. It’s as true a statement as he has ever uttered.

“Then how do we do this?”

“‘This’?” he asks, unsure of her meaning.

“You and I. Living together. Being married.” She looks away and he thinks she might be blushing. But the candlelight makes it hard to tell and when it comes to her, he cannot trust his own judgement.

“I suspect that dilemma was part of his plan.”

“Screw his plan. He's not here. We are. And we're the ones who--” She abruptly stops.

“You ask me to trust you--”

“I can't tell you. Not yet,” she defends herself. But her words seem hollow.

“Then when?”

“When you can control it!” she shouts and sighs in exasperation.

“Control what?” he asks, but she won't meet his eye. In fact, she starts shoving her pens and book into a bag as she prepares to run away again. “Control what? What is this grand scheme you have for me, Jane Foster? What is it you expect me to do?” He stands in her path, barring her exit from the large entry cavern.

“Fight,” she practically begs. “I want you to fight.”

“And what good will it do, when the might of Asgard did not stand a chance? When Thor--” His throat unexpectly closes around the name. And he feels foolish for the way his eyes water. He has no right to mourn.

“I have a plan,” she promises yet again.

“Then tell me what it is. You wanted my help, did you not?”

“I need to build something. A device. And to do that, I need materials and time and calculations. It's going to take a long time. Years probably. And I need to know about the rainbow bridge. I need to learn how to use Asgardian technology. I need to understand how your magic works. And to do all that, I need to learn how to read,” she explains. And her requests seem so benign. How can these small things, accomplished by a single woman, make any difference?

“Fine,” he relents and he blames his guilt more than anything. He hopes that if he does these few things it will assuage some small amount of blame. Maybe just enough to be able to say Thor’s name without feeling like he's being sliced up from the inside out.

\--

“I will do as you ask. I will teach you how to read runes and about magic. I will do all you have requested. But my cooperation comes at a price,” he stipulates and she's not at all surprised.

“What do you want?” she asks, but she can only think of one thing she could offer him. And while she's not thrilled about it, she's not opposed to it either. If sleeping with him means getting what she needs, she's willing to do that.

“That night, at the hot springs, what almost happened that night,” he says solemnly, “it must never happen again.”

And that really throws her. It is not at all what she's been expecting. In fact, it is the exact opposite of what she'd expected him to say. “Sex?” she asks, stunned.

“Yes. You must swear. Even if I come to you, even if I beg. You must not allow me,” he explains and she feels like she must be going crazy. Loki, beg? That doesn't even seem possible.

“Okay…?” And even she is aware of the way it sounds more like a question than a promise.

“Fight me if you must, use whatever means necessary - even if that means naming the dead. But you must swear it.”

“Okay. I swear,” she promises and this time it comes out clear and sure. “Just so I know, how likely is that to happen? You begging to sleep with me?”

“Inevitable, I suspect.”

And something clicks in her mind. The mention of dreams from earlier, his strange request. “He's doing something to you, isn't he? The dreams--”

“I will fight, I swear it. Only, they are… overwhelming at times. I feel as if I have not slept since that first night,” he admits and refuses to look at her. She's heard him at night; sounds really carry in the caves. She thought it was just a nightmare. But he seems to think it's more. That these dreams are being intentionally fed to him, to hurt him, to torture him.

“Would it help?” she finds herself asking. “If we…?”

“I very much doubt it,” he says, withdrawing from her, as if he’s afraid of her. “But…”

“Yes?” she asks, and she can feel her heartbeat speed up.

“I long for sleep. I am so tired. And even if only for one night.” And she sees him break. Really, honestly break. For the first time, she doesn't see him as this mythical figure, as something larger than life. The instant his face crumbles and he buries his head in his hands, he looks so _human_.

“Just for tonight,” she says, touching the side of his face softly. “Starting tomorrow, I promise. But tonight, you sleep.”

\--

He should not allow it.

She should not accept him. He made her swear it.

But she comes to him so willingly. She touches his face with warmth and affection and he is weak. He is so weak now. Seventy days. That's all it takes to dismantle him entirely. Seventy days of restless nights and illusions of this young not-quite-mortal and he is undone.

He should push her away. Run into the Storms. Their wrath would be better for him. He would deserve that at least.

Because he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to use his brother’s widow as a means to satisfy his own carnal desires.

But he cannot stop himself.

He is on her in the blink of an eye. His hands in her hair, he pulls her lips to his in what he's sure is the worst kiss of her life. He is so desperate, he is shaking. He ruts against her, already hard and aching.

“I'm sorry,” he apologizes as he tugs at her clothes, tearing her shirt. He grabs handfuls of her breasts so greedily, she barely has time to steady herself against his onslaught.

He apologizes again as he sweeps his leg around her feet, tipping her backwards. She is only half on her abandoned blanket, and he can’t spare the time to move her. She stares up at him with wide, fearful eyes. But she does not fight him or pull away.

He is like a crazed animal, the way he attacks her. He tugs her pants off, not even bothering to get them past her knees. He frees his erection and plunges into her without hesitation.

She is not even stimulated, and he feels the flesh of his member rub raw against her unmoistened folds. He grunts in frustration, withdrawing and leaning back so he can spit on her opening. He licks his hand with liberal amounts of saliva and spreads it on himself.

All of which he does in the span of a few heartbeats before he pushes inside her again. Thankfully he slides in easily now. Her pants are still around her knees and he is fully clothed. He bucks into her, bracing himself on his elbows on either side of her head. He hides his face in her shoulder and fucks her blindly.

He apologizes over and over. He knows she cannot find any satisfaction in this terrible act. She is only permitting him to use her body as a tool to end his misery. And he is thankful, so thankful.

He will have plenty of time to regret this in the morning and forever after. But right now, he thinks of nothing but the sensation of filling her. And in just a handful of rough thrusts, his orgasm overtakes him.

“Ég er kominn,[18]” he groans as he climaxes, shoving himself as deeply inside of her as he can. He clings to her shamelessly as he comes.

Once he is finished, the frenzy of the act behind him, he feels a crushing sense of humiliation. Their wedding ceremony lasted longer and that was simply an exchange of names. Mortified, he withdraws at once, unable to meet her gaze.

“I apologize,” he reiterates, though he knows it's useless to do so. The damage is done. He sits up and tucks himself back into his pants.

“Please,” she says suddenly and stops him with her hand on his forearm. Her shirt hangs open where he's ripped it, and he curses himself for being so spineless. But she doesn't say anymore. She just looks at him, her hand on his arm, her chest moving with deep breaths, and he thinks he sees a question in her eyes.

It takes him a moment to understand. But the way her chest is flushed and she leaves herself… exposed - she is unsatisfied. Which is not surprising. He barreled into her before she was even stimulated. It is of little wonder she did not find completion. But she seems to wish it.

She is asking for him to pleasure her, in so little words. He does not blame her for being unable to speak it. He knows he could not, if their positions were reversed.

He briefly considers refusing her. He already regrets coming this far. But he also feels obligated. He took her so swiftly and with no pleasure. It was a selfish thing, a shameful thing. This is the least he can do for her.

And now, without the blinding need to satisfy himself, he can give her the attention she requires.

With a gentleness he has not often shown, he reaches out to touch her face. Running the pad of his thumb over her cheek, softly and with more care than he has ever shown a lover. He kisses her. Chastely at first, until he's certain that she feels safe. Then with increasing desire. He means to build her up.

She gasps when his tongue meets with hers. And he kisses her breathless after. Pulling her up, so they are both kneeling. He then moves on to kiss her neck and shoulders, working the rags of her shirt down her arms.

And this time, when he lays her down, he does so holding the back of her head, and looking into her eyes. He touches her breasts, teases her nipples taut before moving down her body to take one in his mouth. He licks around her nipple then sucks lightly, feeling her arch into his touch, until she is panting under him.

Then he sits back and carefully removes her pants, one leg at a time. He kisses each knee after he frees her legs. Then he leans forward, placing several open-mouthed kisses up her inner thighs as he spreads her legs.

Far from earlier, when she was dry and unready, he finds when he touches her now, she is practically dripping wet. She is so slick, his finger glides into her effortlessly. He licks her clit, moving two fingers in and out, and she sobs something, muffled by the back of her hand she holds to her mouth.

“Is this okay?” he asks, hopeful that he is correctly interpreting her non verbal cues.

“More,” is all she says in return.

So he licks her again and this time she really does cry out. Her entire back arches so fiercely he has to chase her with his mouth. In an effort to keep her in place, he puts one hand on her stomach, holding her down so that when he sucks down on her again, she doesn't slide away.

She seems to respond to his mouth quite readily so he continues to suck and lick, teasing her with his free hand with increasing intensity. His fingers are slick with his own come now, as it leaks from inside her.

And the sounds she makes - she has no right to sound like that. The way she spreads her legs wide and moans and _begs_ for it - it is everything he's dreamed of and more. Because this is real. And he can feel the heat of her body and smell the musk of her arousal on his skin.

He feels himself respond to her increasing fervor.

And he shouldn't. Dear gods, he should not be doing any of this. But she is so eager. And he is hungry for more. Desperate for her. And she is so willing. She welcomes him, asks him for _more_. So he will oblige.

He would give her anything, he realizes. In this moment, she could ask for the head of Thanos himself, and he would trip over himself to die in the pursuit of it. But luckily for him, she does not require his life. Just his surrender.

“Oh god,” she exclaims as her thighs clamp down around his ears, his mouth held tightly against her quivering quim.

Once he is able to free himself from her hold, he makes quick work of his clothes. In the haze of her pleasure, she looks up at him expectantly.

“I'm going to fuck you now,” he explains and she throws her head back, as if she is overcome with an intense wave of pleasure.

“Yes,” she says, nodding.

He takes his time this time, as he pushes inside her. He is not hurried now. No more desperate need. This will not be quick.

\--

Jane is a wreck. Physically and mentally. The way Loki fucks her is straight out of a goddamn porn. He's been steadily fucking her for at least half an hour now. And she can feel herself building up to another orgasm. She rarely ever comes from friction alone. She almost always needs to touch herself during sex. But there is just something about the way he presses into her, just right, that she can feel it mounting.

And she wants this. Oh god, she wants to come again. It's been awhile since she's been this turned on. And he does things with that tongue of his she's never felt before. She knows there is no tomorrow, not for this. She's going to need to make it last. Which, she supposes, is what he's doing too.

He slows his pace and eventually stops thrusting. Then he pulls out and reaches down to move her. It takes a second before she realizes what he's doing, but he flips her over, and has her on her knees in short order.

They fuck like that for a while, but it's hard on her knees on the stone floor. So eventually she leans forward, and looks at him over her shoulder. “My knees,” she explains and turns to face him.

This time she guides him to lay down and she crawls on top of him. She takes him in hand and teases herself a little before sliding down onto him. And he seems to really like this position, because he can touch her breasts while she bounces up and down.

But she's getting a little worn out now, and her orgasm seems to be harder to achieve than she thought. Finally, when she's panting and sweating, he seems to take pity on her and holds her hips to get her to stop moving.

“Lay down,” he instructs and she barely has enough energy to stand when she gets up. So she immediately takes his hand when he holds it out to her.

And together they lay down. He kisses her again, slowly and deeply while he fondles her breasts. He really seems to like them, and she’s not complaining. It’s a rare thing, to feel so desired. Then after a minute or two of kissing, he kneels over her left leg, turning her on her left side slightly. Then he takes her right leg and brings it up so her ankle rests on his shoulder as he slides inside her.[19]

And the way they're positioned now, when he is all the way inside of her, has him pressing against her clit. And it only takes a few minutes of that before she comes, panting and crying out.

And that seems to be what he's been waiting for. Because it seems like no time at all until he's picking up his pace and cursing in another language. So this time, she can almost pinpoint the exact moment he's going to come.

But instead of thrusting into her and coming inside as he's done before, he pulls out at the last second, stroking himself through to completion, shooting milky come over her stomach and thighs.

He pulls on his cock a few times, drawing the last of it out before he surprises her and pushes back inside her. And she wasn't expecting it so when he rubs his pelvis back and forth against her overstimulated clit, it feels like an electric charge shooting up her spine.

“Oh fuck!” she exclaims as she orgasms again. She feels raw in the wake of it, like she’s made of nerve endings. Her eyes clamp shut and she can feel herself shaking. In fact, her entire body trembles as he pulls out and lays down beside her.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “Just… aftermath,” she tries to explain. But she can't ever remember shaking like this after sex so she's kind of making it up as she goes.

“Oh,” he nods, but pulls her into his arms nonetheless.

Which is how she falls asleep. Listening to the sounds of thunderstorms in the distance, and wrapped up in his arms.

There are worse ways to sleep, she supposes.

She hopes he sleeps well.

\--

Loki sleeps as soundly as the dead.

\--

Jane wakes sometime in the night. Her body aches and she is freezing, laying on the stone floor while the fires have gone out. And Loki isn't very warm. His core temperature runs colder than hers. She’d learned that the first time they slept together.

She's shivering and her teeth chatter. So she gets up silently, gathers what's left of her clothes, and heads to her room. After a minute or two of staring blankly into space, considering what she’s just done, she gets dressed. She's done nothing wrong, she finally concludes, and neither has he. This is Thanos’ doing, just like the first time.

Though, maybe that second time last night wasn't exactly for torturing purposes. But that had been an act of defiance, she reasons. She has nothing to be ashamed of.

But, given his track record after the first time, she thinks it best if she gives him a wide berth for awhile. She grabs a blanket from the common room, the one she'd been using to wrap herself with while she tried to work yesterday… before _the incident_ , and puts it over him.

She would go back to her room, but it's so dark without the candles. So she goes back to her spot in front of the entrance instead. She spends the rest of the morning dozing on and off.

\--

It's late afternoon by the time Loki finally wakes. He feels stiff from sleeping all night on the floor. He is unsurprised to find himself alone. Though, when he does not immediately feel the urge to scrub himself raw he’s not sure what to make of that.

He blames the lethargy of finally having a solid night of dreamless sleep. And it's been so long, he nearly forgot what it felt like to be well rested. In fact, he is so grateful to have slept, he feels practically no remorse for what happened last night. If not for the way he behaved. That, he will never forgive himself for, he's sure. But what came after, that he is mildly pleased with.

Eventually she wanders out from her chamber, and she smiles in greeting. And it feels strange, not having that urge to flee in her presence. He thinks something may have changed last night. They've come to an understanding. At the very least, he feels like he can confide in her.

“I have something for you,” he says and begins to stand before he realizes he is still undressed from last night. “A black, leather-bound book, in my quarters,” he tells her instead.

She smiles again and he feels strange at the sight. There is a lightness in him. As she wanders off to retrieve the book, leaving him to dress, he realizes what this sensation is. He is not miserable. And the absence of despair, that hollow ache in his chest, is remarkable. It is not something he has felt in so long, he had not thought he would ever be free of it again. Not while a prisoner under Thanos’s rule.

She returns from his room just as he is pulling on his tunic.

“It's in English,” she says, already flipping through the pages.

“A souvenir of my time spent in Midgard,” he explains.

“You wrote this?” she says, surprised. “It reads like an encyclopedia.”

“It was my intention to document my experiences.”

“A judgemental encyclopedia,” she corrects herself, reading more.

“They lived in huts and slaughtered indiscriminately,” he feels the need to point out. “You would have described them as barbarians too, by today's standards. Their hygiene alone--” he cuts himself off, cringing in disgust.

“Point taken,” she concedes. “So why did you want to document your experiences?”

“I enjoy research,” he answers truthfully. “And it was either that or join Thor in pillaging.”

“Ah,” she says, nodding. “Why give this to me?” she asks.

To which he plucks another book from the middle of a pile near where she's been sitting. He hands it to her and lets her open it. “This is the translation,” he explains.

“They're the same book?”

“Yes. Frigga thought Odin’s advisors would benefit from learning about other cultures. She commissioned a royal scribe to translate it from my work.” He remembers his mother’s pride the day she presented it to him. She'd called him a scholar. He was so young.

“These books are precious to you,” she points out and, strangely, it does not offend him.

“You are correct. So please,” he asks, “treat them well.”

“Are you…” she begins but doesn't continue.

“It's late,” he comments, feeling the weight of her unasked question. “We’ll start with the basics tomorrow.”

And the smile she gives him is nearly blinding. He owes her this and much more. He just hopes he will be able to get some sleep now.

\--

It takes another week, but Loki finally declares it safe to leave the caves. Jane feels a little sad when they do pack up. She’d gotten used to being near the hot springs and having a bedroom. But he assures her, without the Storms, there won’t be any bad weather to worry about.

She makes several trips down to the city with her bags of paper, books, ink, and soap. She catches Loki watching her a few times, as she loads up a bagful. He’s checking to make sure she’s wearing the shoes. She never thanked him for everything he did. For setting up a room for her, for transporting what he could, for making her new supplies to replace what she lost. And for some reason she doesn’t think he wants her to. To draw attention to it is risking the tentative truce they seem to have arrived at in the caves.

Instead, when she gets down to the city with her latest haul and finds her bed and the rest of her belongings have traveled ahead of her, she just smiles. Because there, sitting atop a pile of pillows she doesn’t remember having, is another pair of shoes.

If there’s one thing this whole experience is slowly teaching her, it’s that she doesn’t always need an answer for everything. She learns to accept some things as they are. Shoes are just shoes. A smile is just a smile.

Until it isn’t.

\--

Loki shakes his hand out, trying to rattle the blue from his skin faster. It doesn’t work, of course. He always dreads using the magic of his charm. As if he might use it up one day and be stuck as a monster forever.

But when he watches Jane stooping to the level of a pack animal, hauling her possessions laboriously through the ruins, he can’t seem to help it.

It would have taken her forever, he argues with himself.

It doesn’t mean anything.[20]

\--

The aftermath of the storms isn’t really apparent from the caves, besides one small Storm that refuses to leave Thor’s grave. Loki says it’s a child. It misses its playmate.

“It will survive,” he says. And she knows he mourns as well, but for some reason he won’t allow her to see it. She wonders if it’s because of their situation, if he feels like he’s betraying Thor so he pretends like he’s not hurting too. And she’s learned better than to ask.

Once they get back into the city, she realizes how much the Storms have changed the landscape. The biggest impact is the flooding. Just as Loki had predicted, almost all underground rooms have been flooded, and the sea has risen past the docks where she used to sleep. Most of the smaller debris has been washed out, leaving weaving paths through the wreckage for them to follow.

They settle well inland, closer to the Hall of Science, which he immediately points out. It was much deeper than she realized, and the skylight was almost entirely covered by collapsed columns of the buildings around it. It’s no wonder she couldn’t find it. And now it’s completely submerged. Eventually the waters will recede and she might be able to salvage some books, but for now she just focuses on learning Asgardian.

Loki helps, which is weird. He teaches her the alphabet and how to write the runes. He even teaches her some children’s songs he says are used in their education. She wonders if his mother taught them to him and Thor.

He doesn’t speak about her very often, but when he does he calls her ‘Frigga’ and their conversations are brief. Jane apologizes for her role in his mother’s death. But just like Thor, he insists it was not her doing. In fact, he seems to be under the impression that it’s _his_ fault. He doesn’t really elaborate so she can’t tell if he’s being defeatist or if he really did have a hand in it.

She remembers his enthusiasm to take down Malekith after and she worries that he may really have done something terrible. Either way, she feels like it’s a safer bet to just steer clear of the subject.

They spend almost eight months living together like this. Their days are spent with lessons and conversations and their nights are spent alone, on opposite sides of the Hall’s submerged skylight.

“Do you still have the dreams?” she asks, a few weeks after they’ve settled in. She’s been watching him closely, looking for the same signs of fatigue. When she can’t seem to find any, nor does she hear him thrashing in his sleep like she did those few nights in the cave, before they slept together, she thinks maybe he’s alright now.

“No,” he says, looking anywhere but at her. “But that does not mean they won’t come again,” he warns.

So he keeps his distance when it comes to things like the hot springs and where they sleep. But she doesn’t feel all that worried. And it’s a little alarming, how much she trusts him.

He helps her clear some debris from the entrance to the Hall, so she can track the progress of the falling water.

Each week she checks the waterline, and is happy to see a steady decline. After three months, she can see the top of the World Tree from its skylight. After six months, she can see the tops of the bookshelves on the upper level.

By then, her language skills have progressed to that of an elementary school child. It’s still frustrating, but she has basic syntax down. She just struggles with vocabulary now. She uses the book Loki lent her, the one in English and Asgardian, as a kind of dictionary. Thankfully, he seems to like big words. So it helps. But there are a lot of scientific words she wants to research but can't find in his encyclopedia.

She usually makes a list of words she wants to know and then gives it to him to translate. Which often devolves into a heated discussion about why a Soul Forge should have been called a Quantum Field Generator instead. And why did everything have to have some overly complicated, undescriptive, cryptic name?

“Can’t you just call it what it is?” she complains. “Why do you have to call it ‘the orb of mist and shadow’? Why can’t you just call it a magnetic propulsion ball?”

“It’s a child’s toy,” Loki insists. “Used in a game called Mist and Shadow.”

“Well-- fine. Okay, that makes sense. But you know what I mean.” She throws her hands up in frustration. “Everything always has six more adjectives than is necessary in these scientific principles. It’s exhausting.”

And for some reason that makes him laugh. Just a chuckle, but she’s secretly proud of herself. “That it is,” he says and she can hear his implied meaning - that _she’s_ the exhausting one.

Those discussions are some of her favorite moments. When they spend all day going through the lists, working out what she means and what she should be looking for. It’s then that she learns most of the answers she’s looking for aren’t trapped inside the pages of books she can’t read; they’re trapped inside a man she can’t seem to figure out.

She knew he was intelligent - that was apparent from the first moment she’d met him. But she seems to have underestimated his knowledge base. He isn’t just skilled in deception and manipulation; he is a fount of information. In fact, he almost always seems to have at least some cursory knowledge of what she’s looking for. She expects that with art, history, and literature, being a prince and all, but he seems to not only understand but be well-versed in a number of scientific principles she hadn’t anticipated.

So much so that when she tells him she wants to make a star chart, he says he’s already made his own.

“When the water’s fallen enough, I’ll take you to Heimdall’s second observatory,” he says and she can almost see a boyish joy in his eyes. He looks excited, not just to be talking about the stars, but to be able to share it with her.

“I’d like that,” she says that night over their customary campfire.

She makes regular trips into the Hall of Science, still partially submerged, to retrieve the books she can reach. But even that effort is not without its perils.

She is diving one afternoon, looking for a particular rune on the spines of books when she gets turned around in the dark, murky water. She doesn’t need to breathe, she already knows that. But she stays down so long, her lungs begin to burn, and she can’t stop her autonomic nervous system from taking a breath. And even though it doesn’t kill her, the shock and panic of literally drowning make her blackout.

Loki is the one who rescues her.

“You are reckless,” he tells her, dripping wet and looking pretty freaked out. His hands, which are cold, are still holding her face and when he’s this close she can’t help but notice his eyes.

“What happened?” she asks, a little dazed. She’s not sure if it’s the disorientation of waking up to him hovering over her, or if it’s the trauma she’s obviously suffered.

“You drowned.”

“I thought I didn’t need to breathe.”

“You don’t. But your body still has the instinct.”

“Does yours?” she wonders. And the way he crinkles his nose, she thinks her question confuses him.

“Yes, of course. What purpose are lungs if they’re not used?”

“But the apple--”

“Cannot change the nature of what you are,” he points out again. And she’s pretty sure he’s talking about biology and genetics. Which means maybe they aren’t so different after all, Asgardians and Humans. Even Jotar and Humans, she corrects herself. It’s easy to forget he's not Asgardian when he looks the way he does. “You shouldn’t be in such a hurry to test the limits of the apple. I’ve never seen an immortal _nearly die_ so many times. Is life here so bad? You long for death that much?”

And he looks so genuinely upset she can’t help but lean up and kiss him. It’s the only way she can think of, at the moment, to reassure him. To show him that she’s okay. To say she’s sorry for worrying him. And it seems to work, for a few seconds. The way he leans into the kiss and his fingers tighten his hold on her.

But then he slowly pulls away, like maybe he doesn’t want to.

“I’m not very good with water,” she reminds him and he nods.

“I’m beginning to see that.”

After that, he always seems to be nearby when she goes diving. Just another one of those things they don’t talk about. Like the kiss. Like the shoes. Like the way he looked at her after she drowned. It’s just another one of those things that don’t mean anything.

Except, she knows actions are cumulative. On their own, no one thing held any real significance. But when she added them all up, it was becoming… something.

She’s more careful from then on though. He doesn’t have to rescue her again. She’s always been a fast learner.[21]

As far as the progress of her plan, it’s been very slow going. First she’s going to need to perform a lot of very complex calculations. Then she’s going to need to design and engineer a Einstein-Rosen bridge. Which will mean fabricating raw stock out of scavenged materials and then manufacturing highly specialized components. Then she’s going to need to program it, which will require a computer of some kind, which she will need to program. She’s going to have to create her own coding language by piecing together what she can remember and making it up when she doesn’t. Not to mention she’s going to need a massive source of power for this to work.

And some days the whole endeavor just seems too impossible. Too big, too much. Far too much for one person. Those are the days she sits by the sea and watches the waves. Those are the hardest days. The days when she does nothing but think about everything she still needs to do. And she has no idea what’s going on in the rest of the universe. Is earth still around? Are Darcy and Erik still alive? Do they think she’s dead?

Those are the days she feels alone. She feels lost and small and helpless. And she hates it. She hates feeling like everything she’s working towards is useless. Those are the days she begins to question herself, her plan, her life. Those are the days she looks at her wedding ring and cries. Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. She did it to save the universe. She did it because she had a plan. She did it because she was spiteful and hopeful and so, so angry.

She acted like the universe owed her this. Like somehow, because she survived, that meant she had a purpose. When really, she knew better. There was no order to the universe.

It was just chaos.

Those were the days she really saw this world, the apple, Loki - all of it - for what it was. Her punishment. This is her prison. And it worries her sometimes, that maybe there’s something fundamentally wrong with her, because she doesn’t _hate_ it. Not exactly. She hates Thanos. She hates what he’s done. But she doesn’t hate Loki. In fact, the more time they spend together, the more she _understands_ him. The more she comes to care about him.

She worries that what started out as an act of defiance is slowly becoming something else.

She looks forward to waking up and seeing him. She looks forward to sitting together and reading. She looks forward to those moments when they are not consumed with the pursuit of knowledge, and instead they discuss other things. And worst of all, she desperately looks forward to those rare moments when he grows quiet and still and tells her a story from his past. She loves learning about him. The more she knows the more she wishes she knew.

She’s in danger of something, but she won’t admit what. And the days she sits by the water, searching for some direction in the vastness of space, she mostly thinks about him. About the way he’s careful never to touch her. The way he watches her when she’s focused on a project. The way he smiles sometimes when he makes her laugh.

This is becoming _a thing_. Her ring, their life, this empty planet… it’s starting to feel like home.

And that scares her more than anything.

\--

Something is wrong, Loki realizes. The way she seems to isolate herself on the shore has been increasing. It seems rare at first. Just once in the 150 days they’d been stranded. But she seems preoccupied lately, distracted. Almost as if she’s abandoned her single-minded goal, whatever it was.

And it disturbs him, to see her slowly sink into a malaise. She spends days on end at the shore now. And he fears she may be searching for a more immediate escape.

She hasn’t given him a list of words to translate in some time. Even her excursions to the Hall of Science seem to be stagnant. What is it she’s looking for on the horizon that she can’t find in her books?

“Here,” he says, thrusting a small stack of four books into her arms when she finally returns one evening.

He’s lit the fire, as she seems to prefer, and waits for her to inspect his gift.

“What are they?” she asks, not even bothering to crack the covers. She just lifts the spines to read the titles in the firelight. “Etiquette of family images arriving in Royalty?” she translates the title of one of the books quite poorly.

“Rules for Engagement in Polite Society of Crested Families,” he corrects. “One of the worst books I’ve had the displeasure of reading in my long life, and utterly useless - given the state of society.”

“Okay?” she asks, turning the stack in her hands. “Thanks for the useless books.”

“Open it,” he instructs and feels a slight irritation at her blatant disinterest. It is unlike her, unlike the Jane Foster he has come to know. The bright-eyed knowledge seeker who challenges him. This sad woman who takes no interest in anything is not the woman he married.

She is not his wife.

And he admits, somewhat solemnly, that he misses _her_. He wants her back. Life with this new sullen woman would be torturous indeed.

“Fifth Academic Principles of Asgard Technologists,” she reads the cover page of the book on the top of the stack. And something in her face changes, there is a dawning in her expression, a hint of enthusiasm as she flips to the next book. “The Book of Fróðleikr[22],” she reads and looks up in question.

“Magic,” he tells her and is rewarded with one of her more alluring smiles. The kind she gives him when she’s allowed her thoughts to pull her away. To that place where he knows he can’t follow. And it’s so much better than fear, he realizes[23].

How long, how much of his life, has been spent in the pursuit of the wrong thing? How would this world be changed if he had only known earlier, the difference between adoration and intimidation?

“What are these?” she asks again, only this time when she does, he can see the excitement in her eyes.

“Books,” he says and she smiles. She knows he is teasing her.

“I can see that. Why are they in your handwriting?”

And there is a curious curl in his chest at her words, at the knowledge that she can recognize his hand. “You’ve seemed unhappy of late. I thought, perhaps, your lack of progress may be due to the language barrier. So I took the liberty of translating a few books I thought would most suit your needs. I bleached out the books’ original contents. I did not think anyone would miss them. Least of all myself.”

“Loki,” she says his name and he almost feels a physical sensation of falling at the sound of it. So much so that he has to blink and take a breath to steady himself. “Thank you.” She places the books at her feet, carefully - he notes - as if they were precious things. Before she hugs him. And the way she tucks herself so effortlessly into his arms, the way her head finds the perfect place to set upon his chest, the way his arms wrap so willingly around her slender frame, he thinks perhaps there is more to this than there should be. A current that flows beneath her words, hidden by a shared denial, that hints at something more. Something dangerous. Something he doesn’t know how to stop.

“May it do you much good, Lady Jane,” he whispers into the crown of her head and holds her for as long as she will allow it. And even though he feels like she stays with him longer than she should, it is not nearly long enough.

This ache, this hunger, this desire he feels to be around her, to watch her, to speak with her, to listen to her tales of life on Earth - this is not like the suffocating need he felt before. This is not the result of torturous dreams. This is something else entirely. The way he feels the urge to reach out to her when she weeps during her recount of the death of her parents, the way he felt pulling her lifeless body from the dark waters of the Hall of Science when she ventured too deep, the crushing sense of relief when she kissed him; these are not the same. He knows she’s leading him down a path he shouldn’t follow. He knows there is only ruin to fall in love with his war bride. And yet, he is drawn to her[24], unable to leave her side.

He will endure for now, he tells himself. He will take all the punishment, all the pain and anguish that is sure to follow someday, if only for the contentment she seems to bring him in the interim.

Loki has never had the gift of foresight. He has always been a selfish creature, more focused on the here and now than the potential for torment in the future. And it seems such a far-off risk when she is so near.

How could he ever hope to fight against this when it is so nearly everything he’s ever wanted?

\--

Jane spends the next few weeks pouring over each of the books he’s translated for her. One is about the Bifrost, its history and development. There is a lot of anecdotal stories about the famous people who conceived and pushed for its creation - including Odin’s father. None of which really helped her. But there was also a lot of information about the materials chosen, and how long construction took. And three whole chapters on the Asgardian magic principles upon which the bridge was built.

And it’s the first time that she really considers how close magic and science are. She always thought they were, but to see very clear scientific evidence particle physics written like a poem, it really hits home for her.

There’s the book on basic Asgardian technology, which she realizes is something like a mid-level college textbook about mechanical engineering. She spends a solid month reading and re-reading that book, even going so far as to try to salvage some Asgardian devices from the ruins so she can experiment with their technology.

She quickly realizes that what looks like magic, is just an altogether foreign kind of electricity. While she is familiar with wireless power transfer, she is unfamiliar with the non-radiative near-field power-transfer they seem to use. Instead of using inductive coupling magnetic fields from coils of wire or metal electrodes, there seems to be a kind of crystal native to Asgard that is capable of producing the same effect. And, what’s more, is they seem to produce a hybrid kind of power transfer of both short, mid, and long range transfers, depending on the kind of stress introduced to the crystals. They can act as a magnet, resonator, and lense - utilizing magnetodynamic, resonant, and light wave coupling.

It’s the biggest breakthrough in power production and consumption in the history of the human race. And on Asgard, teenagers learn about it in illustrated books.

She only realizes there are pictures to accompany the textbook a few chapters in when the text explicitly refers to an image. She asks Loki about it, and he gives her the original Asgardian copy, though a little reluctantly. She realizes while she reads why he was reticent to part with it. He’s made tons of notes in the margins of the book while he was translating. Some are in Asgardian - notes to himself about things he needs to research more or things he doesn’t understand. And some of the notes are in English, words that he can’t find the right translations for, particular sections he thinks Jane will like.

And it isn’t until then that she really stops to consider how much time he must have spent on each of these books. Translation isn’t just decoding. It’s an art. It requires skill and patience. And he’s done it for four books already.

Her first few attempts at basic operation and troubleshooting of Asgardian technology go pretty well. She manages to make a light turn on, which is really exciting, and get a locked box to open. Inside of which, she finds some very exciting fabric!

She isn’t sure what to do with it, but it’s a nice shade of green that reminds her of Loki, so she makes him a new tunic. He doesn’t need it, she’s sure. He never seems to have a shortage of clothes. But she wants to thank him for the books, and it seems like an activity that can keep her hands busy. She uses her new light to work on it at night when he isn’t around. She uses some of the silver fancy fabric in the box to make the neckline look nicer, like the ones he always wears. She uses a pattern she finds in a book she’s been carrying around since before the Storms. She isn’t sure what a lot of the text says; it’s all sewing terms, she’s pretty sure. But the pattern is mostly pictures anyway.

She isn’t very good at stitching, but she does her best. She wraps it in the last piece of blank parchment she has and gives it to him on the night of their 365th day.

\--

She has been acting strange for some time. Not sullen and withdrawn as she was before, not since he gave her the books. This is a new type of peculiar behavior. She’s been secretive and preoccupied with a task that she only seems to engage in after dark. Typically they have stayed by the fire, conversing and reading for well into the night. But recently, she’s taken to retreating alone as soon as the sun sets. And tonight she seems jumpy, nervous. The way her eyes dart back and forth to a large shattered pillar just outside the fire’s glow.

“You seem--”

“I have something for you!” she shouts and jumps up from her seat. He watches as she pulls a small package from behind the pillar she’s been eyeing all night. It’s wrapped in parchment and tied in a bow with a length of leather lace. “Happy Anniversary,” she declares, thrusting the package into his chest and dropping it so quickly, it nearly falls through his grasp. “I know the days are shorter here, and the years are much, much longer. But, it’s been 365 days since we were married.” Her explanation seems nonsensical to him.

He is aware that humans mark the progression of time by locally observable hallmarks. Asgardian time spans much longer than humans, and therefore things like what she refers to as ‘weeks’ and ‘months’ have little meaning for him. But the completion of an orbit of Asgard around its sun is a concept he _is_ familiar with. Though, as she points out, Asgardian years last more than a thousand days.

The observation of 365 days is practically meaningless to him. But even he is aware of the celebration of milestones. Perhaps if it were the 1221th day, he might have prepared something as well, a small token of acknowledgement for their time together.

“I had forgotten,” he says softly, looking at the package in his hands. “Time passes much faster for you. I have not prepared a gift for you,” he admits.

“It’s okay. I just wanted to say ‘thank you’ for how much you’ve helped me. And I found something that reminded me of you so I wanted to make you something. It’s small and not very well made. In fact, you can just burn it, it’s okay,” she says, reaching for the present, as if she means to snatch it from his grasp and do just that.

“I will unwrap it, at least,” he protests and stands, moving out of her reach. And he realizes why she’s looked so nervous all night. It is this gift; she is self-conscious about it. She said she’d made it. And judging by the feel of the thing in his hands, it is probably a tunic.

He unties the leather and is careful not to tear the parchment. He knows she has precious few of it left. In fact, he hasn’t seen her writing for so long he’d assumed she’d run out but was too stubborn to ask him to make more. He’s been waiting to see how long it would take her.

“That’s the last of it,” she says in response to his unvoiced question. She seems to have read it in his careful unfolding of it. And he is struck dumb in the face of her sacrifice. He knows she values parchment more than almost anything else on Asgard, and the fact that she would set aside the last of it for this frivolous act, for him, makes his chest twinge.

He makes a note to himself to conjure her more in the morning.

Inside the wrapping, he finds a tunic, as he’d suspected. But what he hadn’t counted on was what she made it from. “Where did you find this fabric?” he asks, turning to look at her.

“In a locked box. I figured out how to open it when I was playing with the crystals, from the book you gave me. It reminded me of you. Should I not have used it?” she suddenly worries. “Oh god, was it hers?” And he knows she means his mother. She rarely ever speaks Frigga’s name, and he thinks she does so as a way to respect his grief.

“No,” he croaks, his throat feeling tight and dry. “It is mine. Part of my ancestral inheritance.”

“What is that?”

“It would have been given to my wife’s family, as part of our marriage negotiations.”

“Like a dowry?” she asks softly.

“No, more like a wedding gift. It’s customary for a wife to sew her husband a set of clothes from his ancestral inheritance as a way to demonstrate her fealty to his ancestors and house. Where did you find it?” he asks, looking down in wonderment at the tunic in his hands. How could she have known to do this?

“I found three boxes in one of the rooms by the old courtyard. One of them was really big and heavy, so I left it alone. There were two smaller ones, both decorated with shield knots and some runes. I opened the one with a laukaz[25] on it.”

“You must have found Odin’s depository,” he explains. “The chests are for Thor, myself, and our brothers: Baldr and Höðr.”

“I didn’t know you had other brothers.”

“They were stillborn.” He sits, his tunic held firmly in his grasp, to recount to her the story.

\--

“When Thor was born, the entire kingdom rejoiced. When Odin brought me home, he kept me hidden from the people for several years, to disguise the truth of my birth. The people were angry. The birth of a prince should be a joyous occasion. They felt cheated.” And Jane feels her heart break for him. Even as a baby, even when he knew nothing about the world, he was seen by the people as a disappointment. “But Baldr and Höðr were celebrated from the day of the royal announcement. Frigga was worshiped by the people. They wept with joy that she would bear more mighty sons of Odin. But there were complications; she became sick and bedridden. There was a fear that she would not make it to term. Some people begged Odin to intervene, to save Frigga or the boys. I often wondered if he did, sacrificing the lives of his unborn sons to save her.”

She remembers the way Odin mourned for Frigga after her death, and Jane has no trouble believing he loved her enough to sacrifice his own flesh and blood to save her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring this up, or to disturb their memories.” She feels horrible now; she never stopped to consider all those possessions she was picking through - those were people Loki knew. They were his family, his home.

“Baldr was said to be the most beautiful child in all the nine realms. And Höðr was born without eyes. They are known as Baldr the beloved and Höðr the blind[26]. I never knew he kept their inheritance,” he says and she feels like she should say something, honor their memories the way he does. She can’t imagine what it must have been like, for any of them, Frigga least of all.

“Was the other box Thor’s then? The one with the Þurisaz on it?”

“Most certainly. The largest one, no doubt.”

“No, his box was the same size as yours,” she feels the need to point out. Because she knows him well enough to know that he has spent his entire life thinking he was loved least[27]. It would do him some good to know it wasn’t true.

“Why did you not open his?” he asks and she shrugs.

“Yours was prettier,” she answers honestly. His was silver and had really nice metal carvings. Thor’s was gold and had a few jewels on it. It wasn’t gaudy, by any means, but she just prefered the simple silver design better.

“You are a wonder,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her from across the fire, like he’s trying to work her out.

“His was gold with jewels, and it reminded me of our crowns and rings. I really don’t like gold very much. But yours was silver and had these really ornate carvings. It was really pretty - I’ll go get it,” she announces and turns to retrieve it from where she'd left it by her bed. She’s been using it to store her sewing thread and needles in while she worked over the past month.

But she doesn’t get more than a few feet before she feels his hand close around her elbow, halting her progress with a jolt. “Stay,” he says, taking a step towards her and she’s afraid to turn around. Because she knows that voice, the soft one he uses when he’s close to her and he doesn’t want her to be afraid.

Finally, he makes the decision for her, and turns her slowly to look up at him. “You like it then?” she asks, and tries not to let how close he is affect her.

“I love it,” he confesses and she feels her throat seize up.

“It’s not that well made,” she insists. “I used a pattern in a book I found. But I didn’t understand a lot of it. The stitching is all wonky--”

He kisses her. She’s sure it’s only to make her stop talking. But it still takes her by surprise. And everything that’s been eating at her over the last few months, the days she spent watching the waves and looking for a giant sea serpent; it all comes back to her. The way she feels when he kisses her, the way she leans into him, the way she feels like this is _right_ \- it scares her.

“I have no gift,” he says, leaning back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Three hundred and sixty-five days hold no meaning for me. But this,” he says holding up the tunic, “this does.” And he seems to be struggling with something, trying to think of the right way to say it. “Long is one night. Two is even worse. How can I manage three?[28]”

“Wha--”

He kisses her again, and the way he leans into it, his hand on her back, she understands what he means. He’s going to sleep with her. And she has to try very hard not to show the physical sensation of relief she feels at the realization. She’s wanted this for a long, long time now.

\--

Unlike the other times Loki has bedded her, this carries no weight of outside influence. And as such, this night exists for no one but them. The way she clings to him, the way she asks him to touch her, the way she begs her god when he fills her - this belongs to no other. Her body, her pleasure, her rapture, they are his alone. And he makes the most of it. He does not think he will have another chance.

He takes his time, makes sure to trace maps on her back with the tips of his fingers, as if she is the whole world.[29]

And when he finally succumbs to her, surrenders what self-restraint he has, she welcomes him with open arms. He finds a curious thing in her that night. Something he never thought would come to him in what remained of this lifetime. It is a feeling of belonging, a sense of home. She has turned this barren wasteland into a refuge for them. A safe harbor.

And he imagines them burning, the same fate she doomed them to on their wedding day. With the longevity of the apple sustaining them, they are like two points of light in an endless sea of black. They are twin stars. And what do stars do when they fall?

They burn.[30]

\--

That is the night her dreams begin.

She is standing alone in a field of wheat. There is a storm on the horizon. She hears music on the wind. A funeral march.

The end is coming.

Red skies and cracked earth, she stands at the center of the destruction and holds her hand out.

“Burn,” she commands.

And all around her, the world burns. Ashes fall like snow.

“Jane?” Loki asks from his knees. “Beloved,” he says, reaching for her.

“We have work to do,” she tells him before they are engulfed in flames.

\--

Jane wakes gasping, clawing at her throat, trying to flee the flames.

“It's a dream,” Loki insists. He's holding her shoulders and she tries to figure out why the world is so dark.

“We were burning,” she tells him and touches his hands on her arms, trying to convince her that it wasn't real.

“You're safe now,” he reassures her and she cries into his chest. She feels foolish. But it felt so real.

\--

Loki doesn't tell her that in Aesir culture, it is customary to record the dreams after sex due to their prophetic nature.[31] He doesn't want to alarm her.

But he thinks about it over the next few days, as she retreats back to her books and technology. He wonders if her dreams that night are more than just passing images.

If they are a herald of what is yet to come. But if it is, if what she saw really is a preview of their future, at least he knows they will burn together.

\--

“I have a question about magic.” She approaches him a few nights later, book in hand.

“What is it you wish to know?” he asks, careful to keep his attention on the book he's translating for her.

“I've read the fundamentals. And I understand the principles of it, of harnessing exotic forms of electromagnetic energy outside the human perception, like dark energy. I even understand the concept of the branching ‘roots’. I'm pretty sure that's galactic filament. But…” She shrugs. “When I get to the actual practical application of manipulating dark energy with physical movements and utilizing your thoughts-- I just don't see how that works. Can all Asgardians and Jotar manipulate this energy?”

“No,” he says, considering what she's said. “And not all those who are capable of perception can harness the power. Thor could sense magic, but not perform it.”

“How do you sense it? Is it an actual, physical sensation? Where do you feel it? Do you have an organ capable of sensing the energy? Like the ampullae of lorenzini in sharks?”

“I am unfamiliar with this ‘lorenzini’ but I doubt there is a physiological requirement for sensing magic. There have been mortals capable of both perception and manipulation,” he explains and that makes her feel a little better. She might be able to learn.

“So how do you feel it? How do you manipulate it? Do you create those knives or are you transporting them from another place?” she rushes to ask all the questions she's always wanted to know.

“I can feel the presence of magic in many ways. On my hands, in my chest, at the back of my mind. To harness the power, I must first grab hold of it and then channel it through myself, transforming it into what I desire. A spell, an object, a disguise, whatever I wish. My knives are neither created or moved. They are safely stored in the place between realms,” he explains and that sparks a memory for her.

“Like where the aether was hidden?”

“Yes. Precisely. Did you not _feel_ the magic that day? Did it not lead you to it?” he prompts and she stops to think.

“Yeah. I guess it did. I didn't know what it was at first. Just a feeling--”

“A nearness,” he says and she nods.

“An immediacy,” she tries to explain.

“A danger,” he seems to understand. “Yes. That is magic. It can be subtle. Just a feeling of unbelonging: a dissonance. Or it can be sharp and overwhelming.”

“So, this ‘place between realms.’ Is that like a pocket of interdimensional space?” she wonders.[32]

“A pocket seems a fitting name,” he answers and even though it's not really the answer she's looking for, at least she feels like she's gaining an understanding.

“But how do you harness it?” she asks again, frustrated. “I would need to build a device capable of detecting dark energy, then figure out how to contain it before I could hope to transform it.”

“Would you like to try?” he asks, putting his pen down.

“How? There's no more magic,” she points out.

“It exists, I just can't manipulate it,” he explains.

“Okay. That makes more sense. If it is an exotic form of energy, even Thanos couldn't just erase it from existence,” she says more to herself than him. “Wait! You can still manipulate the magic of your appearance.”

“Yes. It seems Thanos was unable to take that from me.”

“It must be bound to you in some way?” she hypothesizes. “A synthesizing of your DNA maybe. Can you show me? Can you teach me how to do it?” she asks excitedly.

“No,” he answers quickly.

“You asked me if I wanted to try it,” she points out.

“Sensing it. Not manipulating it.”

“Please,” she asks softly. She knows she shouldn't press the issue. She knows he's self conscious about his appearance. But she really needs to know how this works.

“It will hurt,” he finally says after some deliberating.

“How?”

“My true form, to touch my skin will burn you terribly. I am told it is quite unpleasant,” he says, careful to look anywhere but at her.

“I'll survive,” she shrugs.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he finally says and she can't help but smile.

“I'll forgive you,” she tells him, because she's pretty sure that's what he needs to hear.

“Very well,” he sighs. “Come here.”

\--

And even the threat of pain does not keep her from coming to him. She trusts him. She believes him. And he is not sure how he feels about that.

Her hand in his, she waits for him to unveil the mysteries of magic. Just as his mother had done for him when he was a boy.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and stands behind her, his hands move to cover hers. “Ignore everything but the sound of my voice.”

She nods, her head moving against his chest.

Then he shuts his eyes and calls to mind the branching roots of magic that lay just below the surface. They are as veins, tendrils from all living things that entwine and creep outward.

Focusing on the nearest branches that emanate from within himself, he imagines reaching down - into himself - and plucking the string. Letting it vibrate in tune with his illusion.

He has but to harness it, to extract it and use it.

He does not watch his skin turn blue, or the markings of his birth raise. But he knows he has exposed himself for what he truly is when he hears her gasp of pain. He should pull away, he should hide away the ugly truth of it. But he promised. He swore to teach her.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks, careful to mind his concentration.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I can feel it,” she insists.

“Very well,” he says.

Then he takes the flow of energy from within himself and twists it. Manipulates it into transforming the small pile of books next to him from Asgardian to English. It's a simple spell, translating runes to the Roman alphabet. It's a little harder to interpret the words.

So he draws a little deeper, summoning his powers for more than a superficial translation.

He means to take it from himself, just to tap into the magic of his charm enough to achieve his desired goals.

But there is a fatigue weighing on him. Something is draining him at an alarming rate. It feels like there is a hole in the universe that's siphoning off what little power he manages to control.

He tries to hang on, to extract just enough to satisfy his simple desire. It should be a trivial matter, nothing that he would have even noticed before Asgard fell. But now he feels winded, like he's run a great distance.

“What's wrong?” she asks, equally out of breath.

“Something is draining me,” he explains and she knows she can feel it through their connection.

“Here,” she says and suddenly it is like a floodgate has been opened between them. Where just a moment ago he was starved for power and felt the dwindling response from his own charm, now he is inundated with power. It flows into him so quickly, filling him to the brim.

He is drowning in it.

“What--” he chokes on his own question. But even without hearing the answer, he knows it's coming from her. Somehow she is funneling magic into him, more magic than he's ever felt. He feels like it's seeping out of his skin, there is so much of it.

And even before he probes the source of it, he knows. Maybe he's always known. The way Thanos seemed puzzled by her. The way she seemed so sure there was _another way_. Some of the aether still resides within her. The way his charm clings to him; it hides inside her. In her blood and bones.

It is a part of her.

“How long?” he gasps, trying to stem the tide. How long has she known?

“Before we were married,” she answers simply. And linked the way they are, he can see more than just the truth. He feels her agony. He feels the pain of her memories, the moment she realized Thanos could not kill her.

Which means Loki should still have some of the mind gem within him as well. And operating under this assumption, she proposed they be married. It was her plan all along.

Learn to control their gems, strip them from Thanos, and fight back. It's why Thanos can see into him so easily. Why Thanos could not erase Jane. It was the gems’ influences.

And as abruptly as the power came to him, the flow of it dries up. She's stopped moving it into him.

When he releases her hand, he sees the burns on her arms and fingers and has to look away. Before them sits a small library’s worth of translated books. Enough for another rotation of Earth around its sun, he's sure. She steps away from him and turns so he can watch her in the starlight.

“You have to learn to shut him out,” she says after a few moments of cringing in pain as her skin heals. She watches it, tracks the pattern of blacken, burnt flesh as it recedes. “To take control.”

“Do you really think it possible?” he asks, not bothering to clarify whether he means blocking Thanos from his mind or achieving her ends. He questions all of it.

“It has to be,” she responds simply. As if necessity alone were enough to make it so. He wonders what that kind of conviction is like. He can't imagine it.

“So long as I am vulnerable, you are in danger,” he warns, and it eats at him - that he could unwittingly be her downfall. More than that, it terrifies him. “We should separate immediately.”

“But--”

“It’s not worth the risk,” he insists.

“Isn’t that for me to decide?” she argues back and he sighs heavily.

“Why are you so combative? I am not challenging you. I am trying to protect you!”

“You don’t get to unilaterally decide what’s best for me!” she yells back.

“Please, Jane--”

“I don’t want to!” And before he can brace himself or turn away, she crashes into him. Her lips are firm against his. And he feels a sharp pain in his chest, a fear that coalesces into an immediate terror.

Thanos will know. More than just her connection to the gem. More than just her plan. Thanos will know what she has become. He will know that Loki craves her. He will know and he will use it against him.

Desperately, and with more force that he should, he pushes her away. She falls to the ground at his feet. And the way she looks up at him makes him ache. She trusts him. She believes in him.

“I will not be responsible for your death,” he says and wishes it were enough to dissuade her. Whatever else he has done in his life, he will not do this. Not to her.

“You won't be,” she says from her place on the ground. “We need to stick together.”

“‘We’? There is no ‘we’. You were just a distraction, an illusion. He used you to make me weak, to make me obedient. And I played along, as long as it suited me. But no more. Your connection to the gem makes you a threat. And I know what he does to those who threaten his power. I will not die for you! Not for this!” He holds up his ring hand so she can see the gold band. “None of this is real. Surely you must know that. You have some intelligence. Think, Jane Foster. Everything that he has done has been to cause pain. This… arrangement is no different.”

“No.” She shakes her head and stands. “This wasn't his idea. It was mine. I needed you.”

“You needed the gem!” he rages. “And you assumed I would retain some power as you have. But you're wrong. I never accepted the mind stone. It was thrust upon me. I was nothing but a slave to its true master. Do not look to me again for this, I can bring nothing of worth,” he insists and begins to syphon his illusion charm into a transportation spell. He is preparing to abandon her.

“You love me!” she shouts, and there are tears on her cheeks. And he feels exactly as if lightning has struck him. There is a sharp pain in his chest, and he fears for his life.

“No.” He shakes his head because that cannot be true. While he did have some measure of affection for her, it could not be love. He learned to enjoy her company out of necessity. She was fiercely intelligent, stubborn, kind, and uniquely alluring. But that did not constitute love. He does not wish her harm. In fact, he had risked great pain to see to her well being since their imprisonment. But that was because she was ignorant, like a child. He did not want the guilt of her death on his hands. Not after so many others. “No,” he says again, taking a step back from her. “I'm a god! You're a mortal! No better than an insect. You mean nothing to me!”

“I don't believe you,” she whispers and it nearly kills him because she might be right. All those fireside conversations, the sex, the implicit trust, the anticipation of her each day… it all adds up to something. She is more than an ally. More than a fellow prisoner. She is a companion. She is precious to him.

“I don't,” he tries to insist, but it comes out so weakly he doesn't even believe himself anymore. “I can't,” he amends and for some reason, that feels more accurate.

“We can do this together,” she says and he is adamant now. He cannot stay. Not even for her begging. It would bring only ruin.

He pools his magic again and with a flick of his wrist he departs. He moves himself to a hidden place among the ruins, where she cannot find him. His departing, “Farewell, Lady Jane,” is a paltry gesture compared to the swell of regret he feels at leaving her.

“At least she's alive,” he tells himself before he collapses. He feels more drained than he has since those first 70 days. Like it's taken all his energy and power to leave her. And he finds, as his hands remain blue and the darkness closes in, that perhaps she was right after all. The kind of fatigue he feels now cannot be explained by magic alone. Even with his limited stores, he should not feel this empty. That sensation comes from somewhere else.

From the absence of her.

\--

Jane collapses in the dirt, her tears running hot and fast down her cheeks.

He's abandoned her.

She curls in on herself and lets the tears come. There's no one to watch her weep.

She can't do this alone. It was already overwhelming, considering all the things she needed to do. But when he'd been with her, it felt - if not possible then at least less _im_ possible. Now she just feels empty. Cold and hollow, she lets the night close in on her.

This is the first time since Thor died that she wishes she joined him.

\--

He keeps his distance for some time. Cloistered in the Hall of Lost Souls, he wallows. There is no way out, except for magic, and he is far too weak to attempt another transportation charm for some time. Trapped in the dark, haunted by the dead, he loses all sense of time.

The Hall is yet another in a long line of powerful Asgardian chambers. It was a sacred place, meant only to be visited sparingly. Even the mightiest warriors were weak when faced with the ghosts of their loved ones.

They are meant to be a kind of repository for Asgardian history. Those who wished to converse with the dead were always accompanied by the Guardians of the Dead - a class of Aesir well-versed in the art of astral communication. They would monitor the interactions to ensure that no one became lost to the Hall.

But there are no Guardians now. There is just Loki. Alone. In the dark. Haunted. And he fears he may lose himself to this place if he cannot escape soon.

\--

Months pass with no sign of Loki anywhere. She looked for him at first, searched the rubble for any trace of him. She follows months-old footprints in the dirt to what must have been his old workshop.

She finds parchment and ink, pens and translation notes. The elegant script of his handwriting is enough to bring a fresh wave of tears.

After a month of sulking, she transitions to rage. She burns everything. His clothes, his bed, his notes. She burns the dock near where he rescued her. She burns their wedding clothes, where the waters of the Storms trapped them in the weapon’s vault. She even burns the banquet table from their wedding. Golden cloiche and all.

“He's gone!” she screams at the last remaining Storm that still hovers above Mjølnir. “He's never coming back!”

To which the storm only flashes a weak spark of lightning before returning to its rain.

She sits in the Storm’s shower, her hand holding Mjølnir's leather-wrapped grip. Her tears are warm, compared to the rain.

In the morning, the Storm is gone, and Jane realizes that she can’t go on like this. No matter what, she has a job to do. Wherever he's hidden himself, she can't get to him. He knows Asgard better than she does, and he doesn't want to be found.

The only thing she has left is her plan.

So she throws herself into study. She reads through all the translated books, pushing aside the urge to burn them when she's done. She will need them to study.

She teaches herself about Asgardian crystals, about magic, about the history of Asgard. She visits the remains of Heimdall's mainland observatory and maps the stars’ march through the cosmos.

She designs a mechanic calculating machine that runs on three small crystals. She fabricates parts from mailable gold she scavenges from the dead. There are no bodies, not with how Thanos erased them from existence. But their possessions remain.

She raids the palace and homes alike. She takes anything that might be useful, every scrap of metal she can get her hands on.

Her machine is clunky and oddly temperamental, but it works. Charles Babbage and Ada Lovelace would be proud, she thinks.

But she is still a long ways away from where she needs to be.

So she works. And she works. And she works.

She creates her own programming language while planning how to build a working computer. Luckily she has experience with making her own equipment. When she finally has a design and schematic that she thinks will work, she musters her courage and turns to magic.

She's read everything she can about it. How to harness the energy. How to wield it. She practices several small incantations at first, just the manipulation of matter on a small scale. And they go okay. She's able to make more paper, and some better pens. She even translates another book on magic she finds in Loki's things. That one is harder than the others and there are still passages in the book in runes when she reads through it.

But she feels confident enough to try the next phase of her plan.

She's going to build a computer. One that runs on Asgardian crystals, that she can program herself.

She's lost track of time at some point. The days bleed into each other, slumped over her books and drawings.

And every once in awhile, she'll catch herself looking around for him, or turning to ask him something, before she remembers he's gone.

And all the while, she is plagued by dreams. Of him. Of them. Of two stars burning in the vastness of space. Each time she wakes in a panic, reaching for the ghost of him.

There is only one constant to all of it.

Loki and the he way he calls her ‘beloved’ before they burn.

On Asgard. On Earth. On the barren hills of Svartalfheim. On distant planets that probably don't exist. In the void between realms. On the ashes of their wedding table. Over and over and over - they burn.

Sometimes the fire is of her own making, and sometimes it comes from somewhere else, engulfing them in flames that seem to dance.

Sometimes she asks him to stay. Sometimes she begs him to run. And sometimes she says nothing to him, just waits hand-in-hand for the end to come.

\--

The light of the sun is scorching when Loki does make it out. The spell had been difficult to control and so draining he blacked out as soon as he was out. It isn't until he finally wakes, face in the dirt, that the sun finally breaks through the haze of his exhaustion.

This is the first time since he fled to the Hall of Lost Souls that he doesn't hear the dead whispering in his ear. No Frigga desperately asking him to join her. No Thor demanding that he pay for his crimes, accusing him of coveting what was his. No Odin berating him for his mistakes. In all the time he spent there, visited by the departed, he feels as if all the dead of the universe had come to demand recompense.

He is a waning shell of his former self. But he is more determined than ever to make sure Jane never joins the ranks of the dead. If she had come to him, in that dark place, he thinks he might have surrendered.

He sleeps. Dreamless and as soundly as the dead. He sleeps for days on end.

And when he wakes, he smells fire.

He hikes to the Cave of Ages, intent on resting, only to find that she has burned his possessions. All that is left of his temporary abode is a pile of ashes.

The rest of the cave is littered with drawings and notes that make little sense to him. Clearly, she has been using the cave to work.

He retreats, feeling foolish for sneaking around. But he fears what will become of him if he has to deny her again. He doesn't think he has it in him. Certainly not now, while he is weak and tempted.

He chooses to conceal himself, as he did those first 70 days. Nearby but out of sight. He watches her throw herself into her work. Her piles of paper grows and he feels the twinge of magic on his skin when she creates more.

She is tireless in her pursuit.

He realizes in his observations that she has burned all of his possessions that she could afford to lose. All he is left with is the marriage tunic she'd sewn for him, which he was wearing the night he fled.

He watches the way she seems to heave herself from sleep each day, as if the weight of her dreams are enough to bury her. And he wonders if she dreams now as he did those first 70 days. If she is haunted by them. If she watches them burn every night. He wonders what Thanos’ motivation could be to unhinge her so. What was he trying to accomplish with this form of torture?

He watches her foray into Heimdall's second observatory. She loads herself up with star charts and whatever else she can carry. Including Heimdall’s sword, the key to the bifrost, which is taller than she is. She has to strap it to her back just to carry it to her laboratory, the tip dragging through the dirt.

Her laboratory is the weapons vault. She's converted it into some kind of research headquarters where she reads and draws and experiments.

She spends days mapping the stars, and he wonders what it is she's looking for. He knows she looks up and sees hope, but all he can see is the blackness of the void, poised to consume them all. How can they both look up at the night skies and see such vastly different things?[33]

He fears she means to magic her plan, whatever it is. And he knows, better than most, the consequences of meddling with magical forces you can't control.

\--

Jane prepares for a trip.

She will need more crystals for her computer and she wants to make sure she has them on hand when she tries her spell. In fact, she wants extras in case things don't go as planned.

In her research of magic and Asgard she'd come to realize that the crystals are not created. They are harvested.

They grow, like organisms, in a region of the hills called Gundershelm. It is supposed to be a meadow full of crystals. What she finds is more like a graveyard.

\--

Loki tracks her trek to the glade of crystals. He is not sure for what purpose she travels there, but he assumes it is for the crystals. She means to build something. Fashion a piece of technology out of Asgardian parts.

And he is astounded at her proficiency with Asgardian tools. It took technologists generations to perfect the skills she seems to master in just 30 days.

It is terrifying, in fact. To think that she is capable of such drastic leaps in knowledge. What kind of woman is she that such a feat is so simple?

He watches silently as she evokes the Rite of the Harvest and plucks a bag full of crystals from their dwellings. She seems to be familiar with the process, even going so far as to pay homage to the ancestors with an offering of wine. Although she offers water instead of honeyed wine. He is sure the gods are satisfied.

\--

Jane is careful to follow the instructions of how to harvest the crystals. In her readings, she's seen the consequences of those who failed to do so. The crystals could be deadly when provoked.

She doesn't have any real wine, so she offers water from one of the meditative pools of the capital. It's full of Storm water, but she hopes the sentiment will be enough.

The harvesting seems to go smoothly. She leaves with a bag of crystals, more than enough for what she needs. She marks it down as a win.

She wastes no time when she gets back to try the spell. The day and a half hike back is brutal, but she is not deterred.

She lays out all the parts of raw material for her computer. Her crystals, metals, schematics, everything it's taken this long to acquire.

Her computer has never been closer to reality.

Then she spreads her arms wide, invoking the sensation of magic to flow into her. It's weird, to suddenly be aware of something that is always within her. Almost like becoming aware of your breathing. It's always there, but when you focus on it, there is a strange disconnect. Like discovering something you've forgotten.

Once she's found it though, it feels almost natural to reach for it. She focuses her mind on the feeling of it inside her. In her blood and bones. And she calls it forth, commands it to obey her.

“Focus,” she whispers as she moves her hands, drawing the magic out of herself.

“Stop!” a voice shouts, but it's already too late.

The magic in her is stronger than her hold. She can already feel it, pulling away from her and spreading. She only meant to tap into what was left behind of the aether inside her. But when she tried to summon it, she reached out when she should have been reaching within.

She has not summoned the limited power of the residual aether, as she has done before. This time, she has invoked the entirety of the aether. She’s called it to her, welcomed it into herself.

And she’s not ready.

“No!” she yells, trying to get the energy back under control. But she can't. It's pulling her, stretching her to her limits. She can feel it moving through space, abandoning Thanos to return to her. “No,” she cries.

“Let go,” Loki demands and she doesn't even know if he's real or if she's just imaging him.

“I can't,” she insists, and she feels the pull of it drawing her in. She is no longer enacting her will, but abiding its own. And she feels it, that thrumming, all-consuming desire for destruction. It demands blood.

“You must fight it,” he commands and she shakes her head in refusal. He doesn't understand. She's already lost.

“Get away!” she insists, shoving him away, blindly. She can no longer see anything but red.

\--

Loki watches as her spell goes awry. He knows the instant the power overwhelms her. Her eyes shoot open, revealing blood red eyes that remind him of the gem.

It is taking over.

\--

“You can control it, you are the master,” he says and she has trouble hearing him over the rushing of blood in her ears. She feels like she's standing next to a waterfall, the roaring of it is so loud.

“No.” She shakes her head. She has no control over this. It will consume her. It will burn out her mind, hollow out her bones, and be reborn of her ashes. It will command her like a puppet, pulling her strings and making her dance while it burns the whole of the universe.

She needs to contain it. That's all she can think of. She needs a way to contain it, to protect the world from it. From her. A hidden place. A dark place. One without escape.

And the answer comes to her.

“The Hall of Fears,” she vocalizes the command in hopes that it will offer her some semblance of control. She needs to move herself and the gem’s magic within her to the Hall of Fears. It's the only place she knows that's powerful enough to contain it.

\--

“No!” Loki screams and lunges for her, but his hands close on nothing but dust.

She is gone. Disappeared to the Hall of Fears.

He doesn't know how she even knows what the Hall of Fears is, but he knows it is no place he wants her. She must have been desperate, to seek refuge in such a horrific place. She must have read of it in her dives into the Hall of Science.

He curses ever teaching her his tongue. What calamity has it wrought? What terrible fate has he doomed her to?

Every child of Asgard knew to avoid the Hall. A creature of immeasurable strength and a terrifying power to invoke one's greatest fears dwelled there. All children of Asgard eventually faced it as part of their rite of passage. Only once they were ready - once they had learned to show no fear - would they venture into that dark place.

Loki had taken the trial two full Asgardian years after Thor. And it was only with Frigga’s guidance that he was finally able to prevail.

Jane is unprepared. Even if she knows what the Hall of Fears holds, she will not be able to escape with magic. It will torment her until she passes the trial or perishes. There is no escape.

She will be trapped in endless torment. Even when he was desperate to escape her and risked madness by venturing into the Hall of the Dead, he knew better than to trespass on the Hall of Fear. It simply was not done.

To enter the Hall was to tempt fate. It was to test the very bounds of one’s fortitude. Young warriors trained for centuries before ever attempting it. And now, with no guardians to monitor the trials, there was no way out.

Loki runs. As fast as his feet will carry him, he races across the ruins of Asgard, to where he knows she has sequestered herself.

\--

When the magic finally recedes, Jane is weaker than she's ever been. She can barely keep her head up. And she wonders if falling asleep in the presence of The Lurking counts as ‘showing no fear’.

She guesses she's about to find out.

\--

The starlight is soft against her skin.[34]

Jane is hung, like a star, in the night sky.

Below her, the mourning lanterns of Asgard litter the horizon. They weep for her. But she is not a woman anymore. She is an inferno.[35]

She will burn and blaze across the cosmos, fueled by the the destruction of her core elements.

Loki circles her, a twin star, caught in the well of her gravity.

Someday, she will destroy him.

“Jane,” Loki winks in the dark. “Beloved,” he says before they are both flung from their orbit and into the path of a supermassive star.

“Fear me,” the star who means to devour them whispers.

“I do not fear death,” Jane says while falling.

“No.” The star smiles - all teeth and glowing eyes. “You fear what you will do to him.”

And she watches as the star transforms into a mirror image of herself. A main sequence star at first, then transitioning into a human. Blunt nails and teeth, she is not worth the effort of fear.

Until the aether emerges from her skin. It seeps out, like a hive of insects and swirls around her, filling her with so much rage she's choking on it. It vibrates within her bones, humming, calling for blood. It seeks destruction; demands it.

And she watches, helplessly, as the mirror-aether version of herself holds out a hand and brings Loki to his knees.

“He trusted you,” a voice in the dark whispers. “He loved you. And you destroyed him.”

“I will learn to control it,” she argues and she can hear its teeth gnashing.

“No,” Loki's visage taunts her. “You will fail.” His voice is replaced by that of The Lurking. “And it terrifies you, child.”

The starlight gives way to the ruins of Asgard. Loki is naked, mouth sewn shut, and kneeling before Thanos.

A dark form of herself stands at Thanos’ side. Her wedding ring glints in the sunlight. “I would light myself on fire if it meant I got to watch him burn,” her shadow-self says.

“Strike your match, Lady Jane,” Loki responds as he stands.

And the other her smiles wickedly before the raises her hand and Loki is disemboweled, skinned, and set on fire. He is reduced to ash before Jane can even move. Just as Thor had been.

“How could I have been so blind?” Thanos says and Jane watches her aether self take his offered hand. “My love,” he coos.

And Jane feels sick. “No,” she says, backing away. “No. This isn't right. I would never -- I'm not her!”

“Not yet,” it taunts her. And she sees what he's trying to do. He's trying to break her. But she will not allow this illusion to get to her. She is not Death. She would never hurt Loki or join Thanos. She controlled the gem once. She will do it again.

She is the master. It was never Thanos’ to control.

She was chosen. The gem sought her, called to her across the realms. She will not be tricked.

“Not ever! I will not destroy him like Thanos did Thor. I am nothing like that monster!”

“You may not strike the match, but he will burn all the same,” The Lurking whispers in her ear. “Even now, when you do all you can to spare him - he tears himself apart to rescue you.”

And this time the image he conjures feels different. It is not shrouded in shadow like the other images have been. It is clear and bright.

And Jane knows - this is not an illusion. This is real.

Loki is screaming, his Jotun form a clear indication that he's trying to use magic. He is going to tear himself apart. He throws himself against the barrier of the Hall with such ferocity she thinks, only for a second, he may succeed.

But then she remembers where she is. Not even the power of Thanos could breach this place.

She is alone.

\--

Loki is wild with panic. He strips bare his illusion charm, plunders it like it were a treasure trove. He sacrifices his vanity without hesitation. But the magic that clings to him is not enough. Not nearly.

She is trapped in there, with that monster. He remembers, so very clearly, the way it would twist the truth, dig into the heart of its victims. It had the preternatural ability to expose a person’s deepest rooted fears.

Fears they didn't even know they had.

He recalled his trials, the sound of Frigga screaming in pain, begging Loki for mercy. What a sad fate, that his worst fear should come to pass. He had succeeded in causing her death, after all.

And now Jane is locked in there with it. Will she fear him when he retrieves her? Will The Lurking reveal to her all the darkest of him? Will it make her regret her declaration? Will it use him against her?

He nearly goes mad at the prospect.

“Jane!” he screams and presses into the barrier, using every bit of magic and strength he possesses to force it open.

But it does not budge.

He isn't strong enough. Not nearly. All that he is, everything he has, all working in concert for this one thing, and he is found lacking.

And all the portents he’s vigilantly catalogued since their nuptials, the signs that she was to be his downfall, that she was going to cast him into fire - he thinks maybe he was wrong. He read the Norns’ weave incorrectly. She is not his match. She will not light the flame or leave him to burn.

He will do it himself. Because knowing the torment she has in store, knowing the pain, the fear, the death that awaits her - he is certain he will not allow it. She is of him. She is his wife. And he will not allow her to languish in agony. Even if that means tearing apart this realm, stone by stone. Even if that means setting fire to himself, for her - he would gladly burn.

For her, he would do anything. Because he sees, too late - far too late, that he does love her. He loves her more than he loves power. More than he fears Thanos. More than he ever wished for Odin’s favor. He loves her with a power and purity he had not thought himself capable of. What he feels, knowing she is lost to him, is a torture Thanos himself could not have orchestrated.

This is of his own making. By his own design. By his own hand and will, Loki sees now the danger of her. The threat of Jane Foster was not that she was going to condemn him to fire, burning all the while. The peril comes from within. From the vulnerability she creates inside him. He will cast himself headlong into the flames, if only to spare her.

It’s not because of her that he will burn. It’s for her. It was always going to be for her sake. And he feels foolish now for not recognizing it earlier. For running from the truth of it.

He loves her. He loves her as surely as he lives. As long as he lives.

And he knows what he must do. He knows there is only one way to pierce the barrier of the Hall.

He hears an echo of his own voice telling her to control the aether. That she was its master. If that's the case, which he sees now that it must be, then he too should be a master.

He contained within himself the entirety of the mind gem for days. His body was overrun with it. He felt it in his veins, in his mind. He'd felt the call of it, the demand for power. It blinded him to all else.

So he closes his eyes and concentrates on that sensation. What it felt like to host a gem, the thrumming energy, the demand for _more_. And he channels it into himself. He commands it return.

“Please.” He reaches out - beyond Asgard. Through space and time, past distant worlds and swirling galaxies. Past far flung twinkling stars, no more than pinpricks in the night sky.

He traces the path of the gem through the cosmos. Like a star trail that leads him directly to Thanos.

“Lend me your power,” he bargains, speaking directly to the heart of the gem. “Help me free her and I will do anything.”

Then there is a swell of sound, like thundering waves crashing against a sea wall. He is unyielding in his determination. He will excise her from the Hall of Fears. He will release her from that torment. He never warned her. This was his world. He should have guarded her better. Shielded her from the horrors of Asgard.

It was his responsibility. And he failed. He has failed in all things. In all his long life, every undertaking, every task, every goal, every secret desire - he has failed to attain. His pathetic life has been nothing but one failure piled on another.

But no more. Not again. He will not fail in this. He will not allow it. He cannot. Not her.

Not her.

“Not her,” he proclaims to the cosmos. A promise, a vow, an oath that he binds his very life to. For her, he is capable of anything. Even the impossible. He feels his wedding ring burning the flesh of his finger. And he feels a shift, as it bypasses Thanos’ spell which held them prisoner, and transfers to each of them. No longer are their wedding bands their chains. They are not loyal to him anymore. Just like the gems, whatever magic he used to control them belongs to Loki and Jane now.

They are free.

\--

“He’s coming,” The Lurking warns, slinking through the dark like a serpent in the waves.

“Who?” Jane asks and she wishes she could still see Loki. She needs to know he’s okay.

“Can you feel it?” it whispers in her ear, making her turn her face away. She can practically feel its breath against her neck.

She almost asks what, but that second she feels her left hand begin to burn. She thinks it’s The Lurking at first, burning her wedding ring, but then she sees it - the golden shackles that Thanos used to bind her. She can see them around her wrists and tied to a collar, like ghosts that cling to her. They’re tied to her ring. The chains have been there all along, she just couldn’t see them.

And she watches, transfixed, as her ring melts through the links. Once the connection is severed, the specters of her restraints turn solid and slide off her.

She feels lighter than she has in more than a year.

She knows this isn’t her doing. This must be him.

It’s Loki.

He is coming for her.

\--

Distantly he hears a voice. A whisper. A fading echo.

“Gentleness shown once is mercy, shown twice is folly,[36]” Thanos’ voice mocks him, even from across the stars. He knows what this will cost him. He knows what tapping into this power means. They are no longer safe. He will know what they’ve done. And he will come for them. He has doomed them.

“Then I am a fool,” Loki responds. Because what else can he do? What more can he say? That he would choose this, even if it meant sacrificing a thousand lifetimes. He would chose her above all else.

“So be it,” Thanos responds. And at the reply, Loki feels a surge of energy, just like when he'd been trying to show her magic. He feels it rush into him, filling him. He trembles with it, the excess of magic that overflows from the gem. It leaks from his fingers, casting the entire sky a deep blue before it erupts into a golden light more beautiful than the sunrise.

“Open,” he commands and unleashes the full force of the gem. He forms a ball of light so bright and hot he cannot even look upon it. It’s the power of a star. Held in the palm of his hand. His to control. And he uses it to break the barrier. He pushes it back, compresses it with the amber light of the Mind Gem. It will yield to him, to the overwhelming power of the stone.

\--

The ground below her shutters and quakes, and Jane knows - it’s time.

A second before The Lurking is vaporized, Jane turns away from a light that comes flooding into the dark. The red aether of the gem springs outward, from her blood, her fingers, her skin, her lungs. It flies out of every inch of her, surrounding her. Then it solidifies, encasing her in a shell not even Loki and the mind gem can penetrate.

As soon as the danger has passed, the aether retreats back inside of her.

“Jane!” She hears Loki calling her name and she has to muffle a sob into her hand.

“Here!” she calls.

“Jane,” he gasps when he finally sees her. And whatever fears there might have been in him once have disappeared. The way he runs to her, the way he crushes her to his chest, runs his hands over her cheeks, examines her with the kind of desperation only love knows; this is not the same man who ran from her. “Are you injured?” he asks, and it breaks her. Oh, it breaks her, because he’s been right here. This whole time, since their first night together, he has always asked her the same question.

He’s loved her from the start.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” she reassures him and kisses him. “What about you? What did you do?” she accuses, because she knows what he’s traded for her release.

“It was my choice,” he says. “My right,” he corrects himself and she’s never loved him more.

“As is mine,” she says pointedly as she pools her magic and snaps them to the foot of Odin’s throne. The charred remains of their wedding table blacken the ground.

She can already feel it - the strain of the gem. It cannot serve two masters.

He is coming. He’s coming to kill them, to take back what they stole. And everything she’s been working towards, the Einstein-Rosen bridge she wanted to build to rally what was left of Earth’s defenses, training Loki to control his thoughts and use the gem, learning how to harness the aether, using magic to defeat Thanos - there’s no time.

This is it. Right now. Right here.

With nothing but the two of them, stolen gems they can barely contain, they will face off against the most powerful being in the entire universe.

And he doesn’t stand a chance.

\--

Loki watches as she bends down to touch the handle of Mjølnir. She caresses it, as if she has love for it.

“The hammer will not come willingly,” Loki warns. He knows they will need every advantage, but he cannot fathom the mighty Mjølnir ever yielding to another.

“You’d be surprised,” she answers as she plucks it from the rubble. “Mjølnir and I have an understanding,” she explains.

“You’ve known? All along?” he asks, and he feels something fall into place. Her determination, her adamance that they could defeat Thanos. She knew, since before their vows, that she was worthy. “Did _he_ know?”

“Thor?” Jane asks, and she looks away, as if lost in a memory. “No, he was sensitive about his hammer. I didn’t see a reason to upset him.”

“But the aether, the apple… our vows. How did you know it would not reject you this time?” He marvels at it, the sight of Jane clad in the armor of Thor. Her hair cast a golden blonde, a red cape flowing in the wind. She is a sight to behold. Glorious and poised for battle, he is sure she’s never been more beautiful as she is now. Now that she takes up arms. Now that she possesses every scrap of power he has ever coveted.

“They can’t change my nature,” she reminds him and it seems almost unjust that she is still worthy, even with the power of the gem flowing in her veins. But her words remind him who she is, _what_ she is. And he is not surprised at all. He is only disappointed for not allowing himself to see it sooner.

There is no one more worthy of Mjølnir’s might.

“It suits you,” he says, wistful and strangely content.

“Get ready,” she insists and he can feel it too. The quivering in the gem. Thanos is trying to take it back. But Loki is unconcerned. He knows it will not abandon him now. Not until their agreement is fulfilled.

\--

Next to her, Jane can feel a tingle of magic against her skin. When she looks over, Loki is now garbed in his traditional Asgardian armor, horned helmet and all.

“You’re with me, right?” she whispers to Mjølnir and is surprised to find it answers.

_Yes, Jane Foster of Earth. Long have I waited for the day when you would come._

“Jane?” Loki calls her name and she looks over at him, unsure what to say. “Does it speak to you?” he guesses.

“I didn’t know… Thor never said,” Jane tries to explain.

“He didn’t know,” Loki explains and that makes Jane feel sad. How could he not know? “He never bothered to try.”

“Did you?” she wonders and the way his eyes slide away is the only answer she needs.

“It judged me unworthy.”

_He judges himself_ , Mjølnir whispers in her mind.

If they’d had more time, she might have pressed - asked Mjølnir more questions or told Loki what it said. But she doesn’t have time for any of that. Before Jane can even open her mouth to speak, a tear opens in the sky. A gaping void, like the yawning fangs of a terrible beast. There is nothing on the other side but absolute darkness. Next to her, Loki summons Heimdall’s sword and Odin’s spear.

He fears whatever place Thanos is traveling from.

“You dare steal from me!?” Thanos’ booming voice erupts from the tear just as he descends from the sky. Legions of Chitauri and other aliens travel in his wake, clattering and gnashing their teeth. They are eager for war.

“They were never yours!” Jane answers back and she’s glad to hear that her voice is crisp and clear. There is no hint of fear. In her grip, Mjølnir hums its approval.

“Well said,” Loki whispers for her ears only as Thanos comes to rest beside Odin’s ruined throne.

“See how I am disrespected!” Thanos cries to the sky, speaking directly to his Lady Death no doubt. And Jane sees his gauntlet is missing two stones. The red gem and the largest of all the stones - the yellow gem, which Loki now controls. “I rescued you from the void, Loki Laufeyson--”

“Laufey was no father of mine. I have always been and _will_ always be Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard!” Loki corrects him and Jane feels a great swell of pride. Mjølnir seems to agree, the way it pulses in her grip, ready to strike for the sake of her husband’s honor.

“I saved you from darkness. I gave you an army, granted you the use of my gem… and this is how you repay me? I give you the very thing you wanted most, and you dare to steal from me?”

“I never wanted this!” Loki roars and Jane feels her heart ache for him. She always knew he hated Thanos, hated what he did to Asgard. But he’d never said so, never aloud. So hearing him scream it now affects her deeply. “I never wanted my home destroyed, my people wiped from existence.”

“But you wanted the throne, and now you have it,” Thanos gestures and Loki’s helmet is replaced with the golden crown of their wedding day.

“No!” he screams and tries to pull it off, dropping his weapons, but it won’t budge. Not even when he grabs fitsful of hair in his desperation.

“Loki,” Jane calls softly and turns her back on Thanos. He is no threat to her. At the sound of her voice, he stills and looks at her. She reaches out with her free hand and flicks the crown from his head and magicks back his helmet. “He is small and sad and he will lose,” she reassures him. “Don’t let him in. Don’t let him take anything else from you. His tricks won’t stop us.”

\--

And there is something about the sight of Jane, unafraid and bold, that soothes him. He is overcome with a serene kind of calm he has never known. She is right. Of course. She is always right. “I’m with you,” he answers and takes her left hand in his. The gold of her ring winks in the sun. But then he touches it, spins it around her finger. He transforms the gold to silver and inlays beautiful filigree work, the kind she liked about his ancestral chest. “There,” he says, holding up his left hand to show her his matching band. “That’s better.”

“Much,” she agrees and kisses him sweetly. They do not belong to Thanos anymore. Their marriage does not belong to him.

“How far you’ve fallen, Lady Jane. If only Thor could see your betrayal,” Thanos taunts but his wife is unmoved. She only turns back to Thanos, with that same diamond-hardened resolve.

“He’s not here. You killed him,” she reminds him and Loki feels a chill run up his spine at her words. She radiates power and strength. If he did not already love her, he would have no excuse now.

“And now, you seek to avenge him? His brother’s lips are still warm from yours yet you profess to mourn him?” Thanos says before turning to Loki. “And you, Loki, how could you allow this? She was given to you as a gift, to make your own. And you let her take up arms against me? You let her goad you into disobedience? You would permit such a cowardly betrayal?”

“The question isn’t who’s going to let me,” Jane says as she swings the proud hammer over her shoulder, as if it were a simple thing to command the power of Thor. “The question is who’s going to stop me.[37]”

“You’re nothing!” Thanos bellows, his eyes wild now. He already knows he will lose. “You can't kill me!” he declares, even as he takes a step backwards, away from Jane. “I’m eternal!” He knows enough to fear her ire.

“Earth littered with ruins of empires who thought they were eternal,[38]” Jane responds before she tips her head back, opens her mouth, and releases Hel.

\--

All around her, Thanos’ minions fall. Like chaff, they are nothing more than fodder.

Thanos raises his gloved hand. He tries to summon the gem, to take it from her. But Jane will not allow it. The gem is loyal. It is hers. It will not listen to anyone but her.

Next to her, she sees Loki struggle with the mind gem. She knows he never truly accepted it; it was always tainted with the will of Thanos.

“It belongs to you,” she reminds him and her hand on his face steadies him.

“None of them are his,” he says and she tilts her head in thought.

He’s right. Thanos stole all the stones from others. They don’t belong to him. They never did.

“Call them,” she says as the aether condenses and flies back into her, leaving nothing but corpses in its wake. Mjølnir sings, nestled in her left hand, held against her wedding band. Loki reaches his hand to her in the maelstrom Thanos conjurs. It feels like a summer’s breeze to Jane. Soft and fleeting.

Together Jane and Loki reach out, call forth the rightful owners of the remaining gems.

“Come,” Jane instructs.

“Take what’s yours,” Loki finishes the thought.

The combined power of their gems swirl together, mixing into an unholy hue of orange that sets the sky ablaze.

\--

A band of warriors emerge from the flames, made whole by Loki’s thoughts and Jane’s will. They are plucked from their lives and transported between the stars. Loki does not recognize any of them, save one. A man. A human. And it is of little wonder that humans have spread to all corners of the universe and still command the power of gems. They truly are fearsome and terrifying creatures.[39]

“What in the hell--”

“Thanos!” the green woman yells, cutting off the man. She draws her blades and a large blue and red man follows.

“I am Groot,” a small twig creature says from the shoulder of a small furry beast.

“No kidding,” it says, unstrapping the unwieldy gun from its back and pointing it at Thanos.

“Nevermind that!” Loki shouts. “The gem, take it. Take what belongs to you!”

“What are you talking about!?” the human screams.

“He can’t control them. You controlled it once. Do it again!” Jane instructs.

“Are you insane!?” the rodent balks.

“That thing almost killed us,” the human explains.

“There are five[40] gems. Look at his gauntlet,” Loki says before all their eyes turn back to Thanos.

“Where are the red and yellow ones?” the woman asks.

“Here,” Jane demonstrates and flings her hand out, letting the aether flow from her skin. “We only need to weaken him for a second. Take it from him and we will do the rest.”

“There is another,” Loki says as he feels the gem probe into the mind of Thanos. Another that Thanos looted and plundered from.

“He’s inside the stone,” Jane says. She can feel it too. “I will draw him out. Loki, destroy the glove. Guardians,” she addresses the rest, “when I say.”

“Who are you?” the man asks, something like awe in his voice and Loki doesn’t envy him. He knows what it’s like to look at Jane and marvel. There is no pleasure like it. No exercise more enthralling. He’s sure it will haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Jane Foster, of Earth. Goddess of Thunder. The Mighty Thor. Queen of Asgard. Wife to Loki Odinson.”

“And you?” the green woman asks Loki.

“Husband to Jane Foster.”

“You are nothing!” Thanos wails. “I am Than--”

\--

“Husband to Jane Foster,” Loki says simply and it seems strange that he doesn’t say more. That the only title he chose to carry is of her name.

At his declaration, Jane closes her eyes. She uses the power of the gem to draw out the consciousness within the green gem. It calls to her. Beckons her to retrieve him from the lost realm he’s stranded in.

“You are nothing!” Thanos screams, like a petulant child. “I am Than--”

He is cut off by Jane tearing Him through spacetime.

The ghost of a man, still clinging to reality, bound to the soul gem like a phantom. He is a shadow. A specter. And Jane knows, Thanos fears him.

“You swore!” the apparition accuses Thanos. “You said if I joined you, you would free me.”

“I did not know where My Lady ferried you to. I could not reach,” Thanos tries to explain.

“He used you,” Jane says and the haunt turns to pin her with an appraising look.

\--

“He took the gem for himself, and he’s used it to erase half the universe. Take back what’s yours. Fight with us,” she makes her case succinctly and effortlessly.

“Gladly,” he answers and Loki feels hope for the first time. Since his first encounter with Thanos years ago, this is the first time he truly feels like they stand a chance.

And it’s all thanks to her.

\--

Jane molds part of the molten iron core of Asgard into a containment vessel for each stone. She calls them forth from the Realm Below. They erupt through the ruined city streets as she distributes them. Three to the Guardians, and one for she and Loki.

“I will contain him,” the incorporeal man says. “You all must contain the stones. The rest is up to you,” he says, looking back at Jane.

She nods. “Use the gem to control the others. The gem of power is more volatile than the rest. They will yield to it,” Jane instructs the group of fighters they transported here. “Now!”

\--

The soul charges Thanos like a revenant. He is crazed, wild, unfettered. And where the light of his soul touches the titan, Thanos turns to stone.

Powerless to stop it, all he can do is scream as he is swallowed up by the bodiless man.

He is encased in stone, a statue of himself, frozen in pain and fear, etched in marble like a gruesome work of art. All that remains is the golden gauntlet and the gems inset on the knuckles.

“Now, now!” Jane calls, but the others seem to be rooted in place.

“I am Groot!” the twig proclaims, forcing the rest into action.

“How do we take control?” the man asks.

“Remember what it felt like, remember the pain, the power. Call it. It will come!” Loki instructs and they collectively close their eyes.

“It was very unpleasant. I do not wish to feel that pain again,” the largest of them protests.

“Drax!” the woman shouts, and he seems to do as he’s told.

Loki watches as the purple gem winks before fading from the glove. The band of warriors clasp bands and are instantly enveloped in a cloud of dust and lightning.

“Take them!” the ghost shouts, and Loki can hear the strain in his voice. He can’t contain Thanos forever.

He watches as first the blue gem of space is stripped from the glove. Then the green gem of soul. And with it, the ghost of the man. He fades, just like the stone. Until he is no more. Trapped in the containment orb with the stone.

Finally, with great strain, Loki can feel the group of them struggle to contain the purple gem of power. They are near the brink, but eventually they do it, emerging from the smoke looking worse for it. And not a moment too soon. Because the instant they are free, Thanos begins to crumble. Like a shell of stone, he is breaking out of his marble prison.

“Jane,” Loki warns, but she’s already one step ahead of him.

“Take out the rest of his armies,” she says. “I’ve got him.”

\--

She doesn’t wait to see what he’ll do. She trusts him. She knows he’ll handle the rest. All she needs to do is stop Thanos.

Both the gem and Mjølnir cry out as she flies forward. Her teeth bared, she will teach Thanos to fear humans.

Mjølnir moves faster than she’s ever seen before. And she knows it’s the power of the gem fueling it. She hits his abdomen, still encased in stone, and watches as he shatters. His legs and torso explode into a hail of pebbles. His mouth is still stone when he falls. Only one eye is flesh, and she can see the horror in its red depths.

“This is the end,” Jane says. This is her only measure of mercy. Let him pray to whatever gods he prefers. And with one, final swing of her mighty hammer, Thanos - The Mad Titan, Ruler of Acheron, Slave to Lady Death - is no more.

He lays as a pile of rubble at her feet.

\--

It’s easy work to fell Thanos’ armies. The mind gem reaches out through the vast network of branching space and plucks the light from their souls. And one by one, on all the worlds in all the galaxies of the universe, they are rendered null.

The golden gauntlet tumbles from the throne, clattering like their chains on their wedding day, and comes to rest at Loki’s feet.

As if the Norns have handed it to him.

He stares at it for a moment, unsure what to make of it.

“Loki?” the female warrior speaks his name and he is curiously absent. He feels as if he is being pulled in, drawn like a ray of light across the cosmos.

A bargain struck, he is reminded.

_Lend me your power… and I will do anything._

Had those not been his words? Is that not what is now demanded of him?

He can feel it - the gnawing, squirming insidious desire that blossoms in his mind. And he is powerless against it. It calls to him. It compels him to obey.

“Loki, no!” Jane shouts. But she’s too late.

Too late to stop him.

Too late to save him.

\--

Jane watches in horror as Loki picks up the gauntlet and slips it on. His eyes are strangely empty, just a haze of yellow that makes it look like he’s burning up from the inside.

There is a light in the gauntlet, and the yellow stone appears once it’s faded.

“No,” she whispers brokenly. Because she knows what comes next.

And she cannot fathom it.

\--

Loki reaches out, takes the other three orbs and cracks them open like pomegranates. Their jeweled centers spill out into his gold-clad hand. They are beautiful.

Carefully, as if they are fruit, easily bruised, he plucks them from his palm and sets them in the hollows of the glove. They snap into place; the glove was made to house them perfectly.

“Beloved,” Loki calls, holding his hand out to Jane.

“No.” She shakes her head and he watches with a strange kind of detachment as her tears fall like rain.

But he cannot spare her this. He must. He must take it from her. It does not belong with her. The glowing red fire that coats her soul. That is not her fate.

\--

Jane weeps as she is carved up. She feels the separation of the aether like the loss of a limb. She is left cold and hollow, empty now without its power.

Mjølnir is heavy in her hands.

She is left vacant.

\--

“This is the price,” he says as he places the last stone in its setting.

“The price of what?” She weeps and he feels no pain. She does not understand. Not yet.

“The price of love.”

\--

Suddenly, Loki’s eyes clear. His voice isn’t strained. And he smirks. It’s then that Jane knows - this isn’t the power of the gems speaking through him anymore. He is in control. This is Loki.

This is her husband.

“I’m sorry,” he says and she feels a stab of panic in her chest.

“No,” she begs, because she already knows what he’s going to do.

“I love you,” he says and it hurts. Oh god, it feels like she’s made of brittle glass that shatters at his words.

“Don’t go,” she begs. “Don’t leave me.” But it’s too late.

He’s already gone.

\--

“It’s the only way,” he says and drags each gem inside himself. He doubts she can even hear him anymore.

It’s not enough to defeat Thanos. So long as the gems exist, so too will the danger they pose. Someone will always covet their power. Someone will always seek to use them for their own dark purpose. And this, Loki cannot allow. He will not allow the pure light of the gems to ever be corrupted again. He will not allow them to inflict any more damage on his world. On all his worlds. This, he can do. This he will do. For Asgard. For Thor. For Odin and Frigga. For Vanaheim and Nidavellir and Alfheim. For Earth. For all the other worlds not of the nine, they are still his. This is _his_ universe. And he knows the power he wields now makes him more than a prince of a dead world. He is connected, linked to every corner of the universe. He is part of it and it of him.

He will do this to save everyone. But the only one who matters, the only one whose name is on his lips as he kneels down, preparing to absorb the unimaginable power of the gems, is Jane Foster. And she shines brightest among the stars. She is the purest light he has ever seen. Even the dark of the aether could not corrupt her soul. Mjølnir knew that. It knew she was worthy, even as she struggled to control the destructive power of the gem of reality. She never wavered.

And this, he will do for her. For her alone. Because even if it’s for the rest of the universe, the only one that really matters is the one who is bound to him by her own choice. She chose him. And now, it’s time for him to choose her.

That, he can do. Easily.

\--

“What’s happening?” the human among their group asks.

“He’s going to destroy the gems,” Jane answers.

“Is such a thing possible?” the woman asks.

“I don’t know,” Jane admits. She’s not sure of anything except that she’s watching him die.

The light of the gems grow ever brighter, blotting out the sun, blinding her. But she will not look away. She will not let the last thing she sees of her husband to be obscured by darkness. She wants to remember him just as he is. Selfish, foolish, and reckless. She wants to see him surrounded by light and full of love.

He is on one knee, his fist clenched. He cries out in pain and then the entire world is remade.

When the light recedes, in its wake, Jane sees Asgard. Beautiful, shining, glimmering Asgard. Its towering spires and glittering halls. It is as it was in its glory, remade by his hand. And all around her, its people spring to life, mid-step, as if no time has passed for them.

And for an instant she fears that Loki will take it from her - their time spent together. Perhaps he will roll back the clocks and erase the last year of the universe.

But she needn’t have worried. He only allows those who were taken to return, exactly as they left.

She’s still standing next to the throne, and around her the ceiling and walls reassemble themselves, leaving Odin seated on the throne, Frigga at his side, and Thor by the steps.

There is a moment where Jane calls to him, where she wishes desperately to join him. “Don’t go where I can’t follow,” she says, but she feels no pull against the charmed ring on her finger.

He’s really gone.

“Jane?” Thor is the first to notice her. He looks unsurely at her. She knows why. She knows Mjølnir is still in her hand.

“What is the meaning of this?” Odin crows from his throne and Jane can’t bring herself to answer.

“Uh…” The only other human on this entire world steps forward, as if to shield her from their questions. “So, I’m Peter Quill, perhaps you’ve heard of me by my other name - Star Lord?” he asks, to which there is no response. “Okay, so no. This is Gamora,” he gestures at the woman. “That’s Drax, Rocket, and baby Groot.”

“Star… Lord?” Odin sneers. “Who are you? What is the meaning of this?”

“We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy,” Peter answers, but she knows that’s not going to satisfy Odin.

“They helped save you,” Jane interjects and she can feel the keen eyes of Odin finally land on her.

“Mortal, unhand Mjølnir immediately! You are not fit to touch it.” Odin stands and reaches for his staff. But it’s not in his hands. Loki had it when he left. Heimdall’s sword is still on the throne room floor.

“Make another move against this woman, and it will be your last,” Gamora threatens Odin and Jane is so overcome, she can’t even bring herself to speak.

“You dare speak to Odin, Allfather, King of Asgard with such disrespect.”

“I will speak to any tyrant that threatens my friends as I please, _old man_.”

“I am Groot,” baby Groot says.

“Wait… Asgard?” the racoon, Rocket, asks. “I thought she was the Queen of Asgard.”

“Jane,” Peter asks and helps her stand. “I think you kinda need to weigh in.”

“Do not touch her!” Thor yells, but before he can take more than a step the big one, Drax, steps in his way.

“She is with us,” he warns Thor.

“Please,” Jane says, letting Mjølnir slip from her hands. It feels heavy now. It no longer sings. And she knows, in her heart, it was never meant for her. “Take it,” she says, gesturing at the hammer. “I can’t be here right now. I can’t… not when--” she cuts herself off, to stop the tears. The last thing she wants is to cry in front of Odin.

“Jane,” Frigga calls her name softly and it isn’t until that moment that Odin and Thor realize she’s even there.

“Frigga?”

“Mother,” Thor gasps.

Loki brought her back. He left everything as it was before Thanos took them, except for her. Her, he moved time for.

“Jane, what has happened?”

“Mother, how are you alive? Where is Thanos?” Thor asks. “What’s going on?”

“Thanos is dead,” Jane answers. “The stones have been destroyed,” she tells Odin, squaring her shoulders before turning to Frigga. “Loki is gone.”

“Loki! Where has that coward gone? Petulant child. I’ll have his head for imprisoning me and taking the throne!”

“You will show him the respect he deserves!” Jane screams, and she can feel tears on her cheeks.

“Loki?” Thor asks and she knows she’s shown her hand now. But loving Thor feels like eons ago. Miles and years and lifetimes ago.

“The God of Lies?” Odin curls his lip, but this time Jane doesn’t have to defend him. This time, Gamora does it for her.

“You will not speak another word against him,” she demands and Jane wishes she knew how to thank these people for their loyalty.

“He was a great man!” Drax insists.

“Loki?” Thor asks, and she can hear the doubt in him.

“Loki the martyr,” Drax says, but they all just look at him like he’s crazy. “Fallen King of Asgard. Destroyer of Stones. Savior of Worlds. Husband to Jane Foster?” He asks each title in turn, waiting for some spark of recognition. And it kills her that his own family doesn’t even know him. They don’t know what he’s done, what he’s sacrificed for them. For everyone. “Loki Odinson,” Drax finally says and Jane can see the exact moment Thor realizes what he means.

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah! He died saving you lot, the least you could do is show a little respect.”

“Dead?” Frigga gasps and Jane has to look away.

“He sacrificed himself to destroy the stones,” Jane says.

“What did he mean, ‘Husband to Jane Foster’?” Thor asks.

“Later,” Jane says. “I’m tired now.” She turns from the Allfather and his gaudy throne. She leaves Mjølnir where it sits. “Heimdall,” she calls, not bothering to seek him out with magic. She knows he can hear her. “I want to go home,” she says and Peter has to help her stand.

“Don’t you dare!” Odin roars, but she can already feel the pull of the bifrost as it plucks her and the rest of them from the throne room and sends them back to Earth.

“What just happened?” Rocket asks as he spins in circles, brandishing his gun. Groot stands on his shoulder, alert and wide-eyed. They are standing on the roof of Stark Tower.

“Where are we?” Peter asks, and she has a feeling he already knows.

“New York.”

“Earth?” he asks softly.

“Yes. Earth. Ask Heimdall to send you back home when you’re done. He can hear you no matter where you are,” she says as she heads for the rooftop door.

“Where are you going, Jane Foster?” Gamora asks.

“To rest,” she answers. And she feels numb. She feels halved. As if the loss of Loki has somehow physically altered her.

“Friday, the heroes who saved the universe are on the roof. Tell Tony. I’m going to sleep in the guest room. Lock the door behind me. Don’t let anyone in. Not even Tony,” Jane tells Tony’s smart house, already headed for one of his spare rooms.

“Sure thing, Dr. Foster,” Friday chirps. Friday has always liked her. Jane knows she’s in good hands.

\--

Jane is asleep the second her head hits the pillow. And there she stays, asleep and uninterrupted for 37 hours.

But it can’t last forever. She can only hide for so long.

When she does wake up, the world has changed. Not just because of Thanos and the golden apple. The world is not what she remembers. Her life is not what she remembers.

Tony bombards her with a million questions when she finally does emerge, cursing up and down because Friday kept blocking his bypasses when he was trying to break in.

Jane spends the next two months of her life telling the story. Over and over and over. First to Tony and the Guardians. Then to the Avengers. Then SHIELD, then Erik and Darcy. Then to Odin, Frigga and Thor when she’s summoned to testify before the Asgardian high council. Then to the Congress of the Worlds, where representatives of the nine realms gathered to adjudicate on interplanetary issues. Then to the Grand Court of the Nova Empire in an altogether new galaxy full of new alien life.

She tells the story so many times, it feels like someone else’s story after awhile. Someone else who married Loki, who used the power of the stones to kill Thanos, who spent a year falling in love with a man no one knew.

And after it’s over, after she’s gives her story to all those who demand it, she has nothing left. Nowhere to go.

So she goes back to Earth. Back to her trailer in the desert, back to an abandoned gas station with no equipment. She doesn’t go back to her SHIELD lab. She doesn’t go back to Asgard. As sad as it seems, that trailer in the middle of nowhere is the closest thing she’s ever had to a home, besides the ruins of Asgard. But even they don’t exist anymore.

It’s there that Frigga finds her. And when she does, Jane is not surprised. She knew she would eventually.

“I don’t have anything to offer you,” Jane says as she invites her in. Her trailer is a mess, but she can’t bring herself to care.

“It would be improper for you to serve me,” Frigga says and Jane must give her a questioning look. “You are in mourning, Jane Foster. It is I who should serve you.”

“You’re in morning too,” Jane feels the need to point out.

“Not like you are.” She shakes her head.

“We both loved him,” Jane says and her voice catches; she feels like the weight of the entire universe is resting on her shoulders. She’s spent the last two months trying to distance herself from it. It was someone else. Another person’s story, another person’s grief. It didn’t happen to her. It was someone else. Anyone else. But now that Frigga is sitting across from her, speaking softly of grief and loss, Jane feels it all come rushing back to her.

The way he asked if she was injured. The way he always came for her. The way he touched her cheek when he leaned in to kiss her. The way he argued about the poetry of physics. The way he held her when they slept together. The way he hugged her when he gave her his translated books. The way he said he loved her. The way he touched her cheek and told her she was beautiful in the firelight the last time they slept together.

It all comes flooding back. And it’s too much. It’s too big, too raw, too real. She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want this pain, these memories. It would have been kinder to take them from her. It would have been kinder to take her with him.

“He’s gone and no one even knows. They don’t know what he was like. No one knows. I can’t even mourn him because they all still think of him as a criminal. And they won’t listen. I’ve tried to tell them,” Jane sobs hysterically. “I tried to explain what he was like, how brave he was. That he gave up everything for them. But they won’t listen. The only people who even believe me knew him for five minutes. Even his own family - you can’t understand. You weren’t there. You didn’t see the kind of man he was. He was kind and sweet and brave. He was selfless and loyal. And he was proud and headstrong and he made me so angry I could kill him. But I love him. Why can’t anyone else see that? See what I saw? I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be me, how to be Jane without him.”

Jane falls apart. After months of holding it together, she finally feels all the pain she’s been burying deep inside spring to the forefront. There’s no escaping it now. She has nowhere left to run.

“Oh dear,” Frigga says and comes over to her, pulling her into a crushing hug. “You can tell so much about a person by the way they leave you,[41]” Frigga says into the crown of Jane’s head.

“He left me,” Jane sobs, burying her face in Frigga’s shoulder.

“He saved you,” Frigga says and Jane knows now - this is not someone else’s life. This is hers. Her pain, her memories, her love. And no matter what anyone else says, she will never allow them to take it from her again.

No matter how painful it is, it’s hers.

\--

There is a story of Loki, little told, about an enchanted ring and the sky above. It is a story not many learn, because not many bother to read the unabridged history of The Lost Days. When half the universe was wiped from existence. It is a story few know, and even fewer speak of. But there are some, in the far flung worlds, who still speak his name with hushed reverence.

They speak of a man so loved, so strong, so brave, he was able to defeat the most powerful weapon in the universe. They speak of his mighty wife, a woman who commanded lighting and smashed a Titan to dust. They speak of him as a hero, a myth.

The legend of the enchanted ring is a love story. About the woman he so loved, he was able to restore the dead. The story is about a magic ring that bound the two. A bond so strong it was able to overcome the hold a monster had on all the worlds in all the galaxies. The story is about his sacrifice, and the lights that dance the skies of every world in remembrance.

They say he is not gone. They say he is just dormant. He is waiting. For the day his eternal bride will finally be released from her chains of immortality and join him in the next life. They say there is a wave of rainbowed lights - yellow, red, purple, green, and blue, that sweeps across the universe. He drifts from world to world, in search of his love.[42] They say that when the lights finally return home, to the Realm Eternal, that then he will once again be united with his queen.

He left a trail for her to follow, in the poles of every world. When the timing is just right, when the stars have gone from the sky and the cosmic winds pass over a world, you can see it. The light of the stones. They shine for him, in memoriam.

And even worlds who do not know the tale of the King of Magic and his Queen of Fire have come to know these lights as the same name. One name, spread across the universe. All worlds are united in this one thing.

They are called Lokabrenna. It is said to mean ‘Loki’s Light’.

Some argue that these lights are just a naturally occurring phenomenon, that they have existed since the beginning of time. Before The Lost Days. But even on such worlds, the name endures. Even when there is no rational explanation for the name, it persists.

For eons the name will live on. Long after his story has ended. Long after the tiny world of Asgard mourns the death of an honorary Queen. Long after a tiny blue dot is swallowed by a dying star in the middle of a swirling galaxy known as The Milky Way.

Lokabrenna will remain.

 

* * *

  

EPILOGUE

Emeritus Professor, former President of the Congress of The Worlds, thirty-two-time Nobel Prize winner, and oldest known human being, Dr. Jane Foster, died today at the age of 2,346. Dr. Foster held more than a hundred PhDs. Most notably in Astrophysics, Particle Physics, Electrical Engineering, Computer Science, Applied Mathematics, and Ancient Norse Mythology. Dr. Foster was a common household name not only on Earth but on countless other planets, where she spent much of her life in pursuit of the advancement of the Human Race. She is credited with not only championing Earth’s first interplanetary treaty, but also with nearly single handedly revolutionizing humanity’s understanding of science and technology that made space-faring feasible. She helped shape much of modern society as we know it.

What you may not know about Dr. Foster is her involvement in the end of the first interplanetary war. Unlike other hostilities, where Dr. Foster was often sought after as a mediator and conflict resolution expert, she had a much more direct involvement in the Infinity Wars of 2017. In fact, it’s only been the days since her passing that a wealth of previously classified files have been released, under the Interplanetary Homeworld Defence Act of 2059, stipulating that all SHIELD related cases that predate IHDA will be held in a state of international secrecy until the passing of ‘active agents of the state’, as is the right and privilege of Earth’s officially recognized heroes. Due to Dr. Foster’s unusually long life, many of the greatest instances of heroism of the past 2,000 have been held for declassification until now, given her extensive involvement in Earth’s defense. Many of the members of the Congress of the Worlds speculate that Dr. Foster’s life expectancy was exactly the reason for IDHA being passed. It was called quote, “the exact opposite of the Sokovia Accords of 2015.”

In these recently published documents, it’s been revealed that Dr. Foster briefly held the title of Thor, while battling one of the greatest enemies the universe has ever faced. Dr. Foster, along with 8 other individuals, rescued the known universe from the brink of annihilation. Among them is a man known little about, Dr. Foster’s husband the only confirmed fatality of the Infinity Wars. It was during the Lost Days of the war that Dr. Foster’s lesser known title Queen of Asgard was first coined. While she was not an official Queen of Earth’s oldest ally, she was so instrumental to Earth-Asgard relations that she was conferred the honorary title on her 1,221st birthday by King Thor.

Dr. Foster is reported to have passed late Saturday night, on Asgard, where she spent most of her last decades. She will be mourned tomorrow by the ceremonial Procession of Lights, a rite typically reserved only for royalty of the realm. The event will coincide with a particularly rare astronomical phenomenon known as Ælokabrenna.[43] The Ælokabrenna are a massive cloud of exotic cosmic radiation that has not been found anywhere else the universe. Dr. Foster herself spent centuries researching the phenomenon, but currently, their origins are still unknown. They can be seen as they pass nearby worlds as a more dramatic form of localized lokabrenna that can light up the skies of an entire planet's hemisphere, even during the day, and last for hours. They aren’t expected to pass by earth for another 210,000 years.

Those closest to Dr. Foster say that it’s fitting she be laid to rest under the traveling lights. “She always loved them,” King Thor said in the announcement of her passing on Saturday.

Earth will be holding its own vigil for Dr. Foster tomorrow. The Chancellor of the Unified Free States is scheduled to give her eulogy at noon, Eastern Standard Time. The International Foster Museum and Trust in Puente Antiguo, New New Mexico will be streaming several biographical movies for the next week in remembrance. Consult their page for the schedule and more information as it pertains to the ongoing memorial and a complete repository of Fosterian Scholarly works, analyzing her life and impact on the modern world.

Up next: Could there be a new terragenesis outbreak? Stay tuned to find out.

All things end just as they began: with darkness slowly replaced by light.

Jane cracks an eye, wary of the bright sun. She feels strange, not like herself. She sits up quickly, examining her hands and arms. And her suspicions are confirmed. She’s younger than she’s been in two millennium.

“Took you long enough,” a voice says from behind her and her breath catches. Because she knows that voice. Even after thousands of years, she still remembers just the way she felt when she heard it. The last words he ever said to her, _I love you_ , ring in her ears.

“This can’t be real. You can’t be real,” she cries and turns to look at him. And he looks just the same as he did the day he died. Long black hair, keen bright eyes, tall solid frame… “You’re dead,” she sobs.

“So are you,” he points out and she’s a little upset he doesn’t have a better way to break it to her, after spending over two thousand years waiting for her. But it doesn’t matter. None of that matters anymore.

“Loki,” she says and reaches for him.

\--

Loki has waited 1,036 Asgardian years for her. From the instant he was transported to this realm, he has waited.

And now that she’s here. Now that she’s laying in their bed, her hands outstretched, her ring glinting in the morning sun, he is paralyzed.

\--

“I waited,” he tells her, and there is something strange about the way he says it. Like he’s not sure if he should.

“I know,” she says because she can see the truth of it. She knows where they are. She knows it’s the last place either of them should be. Valhalla is not meant for Jotar or Humans. “How can we be here?”

“By the grace of Hela, ruler of Valhalla,” Loki answers. “You may remember her by another name,” he hints and Jane can feel the gears of her mind grinding away as she struggles to answer his riddle.

“Lady Death?” she asks and Loki smiles.

“As quick as always I see,” he says. “She has granted us a short reprieve, from the Sea of Eternal Night.”

“From eternal death?” she guesses. And she’s struck by the familiarity of it, of trying to interpret Loki’s meanings. She’d forgotten how frustrating it was, to not always be the smartest person in a room.

“That’s the wrong question, beloved,” he says, finally crawling into bed.

“It doesn’t matter,” she insists. Because it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter how long they have here together. Every second she spends with him from this point on is a gift. It’s a blessing. As she laid dying on Asgard, Thor and his family by her side, she had not thought to hope for this. To see Loki again. To touch him, to kiss him. This is already more than she can begin to be thankful for.

“A thousand lifetimes,” Loki says, breaking the kiss she’s pulled him into. “That is the deal I made when I asked the Mind Gem to lend me its power. A deal Hela chose to honor when I banished the stones from the universe. A thousand lifetimes,” he reiterates and Jane can taste her own tears when he kisses her again.

\--

At last, Jane is home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

FOOTNOTES

[1] Sirius is a star system and the brightest star in the Earth's night sky for the next 210,000 years. In Scandinavia, the star has been known as Lokabrenna ("burning done by Loki", or "Loki's torch"). What the naked eye perceives as a single star is actually a binary star system, consisting of a white main-sequence star and a faint white dwarf companion. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sirius>

[2] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/134769274687>

[3] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/131282004187> and <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/145152018295>

[3.5] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/131376172189>

[4] <http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/wedding.shtml>

[5] <http://norse-mythology.org/gods-and-creatures/the-aesir-gods-and-goddesses/idun/>

[6] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/106512992242>

[7] <http://www.hurstwic.org/history/articles/daily_living/text/clothing.htm>

[8] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/130096682857>

[9] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/155348450017>

[10] <https://www.asgard.ethz.ch/mythology.phtml>

[11] [http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph?l=l%C3%ADtit&la=non&prior=kemr](http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph?l=l%C3%ADtit&la=non&prior=kemr)

[12] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/131062225302>

[13] <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_English_terms_of_venery,_by_animal>

[14] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/140858443153>

[15] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/138932489014>

[16] <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galactic_plane>

[17] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/136410997899>

[18] “I’m coming” in my best approximation of Ancient Norse, which is pretty much Icelandic.

[19] <http://www.kamaday.com/img/55.gif>

[20] Quote from a Dramione fic I read a long time that I can’t remember, but they do it.

[21] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/133627335506>

[22] <http://www.vikingsofbjornstad.com/Old_Norse_Dictionary_E2N.shtm>

[23] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/98936365272>

[24] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/156020892727>

[25] <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laguz>

[26] <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H%C3%B6%C3%B0r>

[27] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/130816122257>

[28] <http://avaldsnes.info/en/viking/kjaerlighet-og-ekteskap/>

[29] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/129573197217>

[30] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/130816497147>

[31] <http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/wedding.shtml>

[32] <http://news.stanford.edu/news/2005/march2/aaas_susskindsr-030205.html>

[33] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/150046994195>

[34] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/115297604942>

[35] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/143398459249>

[36] <https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/555000-gentleness-shown-once-is-mercy-shown-twice-is-folly>

[37] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/133863526992>

[38] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/130651703332>

[39] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/155960799172>

[40] There might be six stones in MCU, still not sure. I’m going to settle for 5 and ignore Dr. Strange. So the Stones are the Tesseract (blue - space), Loki’s sceptor and Vision’s third eye (yellow - mind), the aether (red - reality), the orb from Guardians of the Galaxy (purple - power), and a yet to be seen fifth stone (green - soul) that for the purposes of this fic was taken from [Adam Warlock](http://marvel.com/universe/Warlock,_Adam), also known in the comics as “Him”.

[41] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/155829974272>

[42] <http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/155924922417>

[43] Æ is norse for eternal

**Author's Note:**

> There were a lot more Asgardian landmarks (from the comics) I wanted to incorporate, but I didn't have the opportunity to. I'd like to revisit this someday and add to it. There is a lot of missing time in the fic so I have plenty of wiggle room to expand this one fay if I can. 
> 
> I really tried not to do Thor!Jane, but I have a weakness. I'm sorry, I can't stop myself. I love it so much. I also love her interacting with the Guardians of the Galaxy crew. Can't stop me.
> 
> I also wanted to point out a few things in the Epilogue that may not have been super obvious. First, Jane dies on a Saturday - Loki's day. The lokabrenna that are passing over when she dies is what's left of the gem's exotic radiation, aka what's left of Loki. The lights will take 210k years to reach Earth, that's when Sirius (the other name for the lokabrenna star) will no longer be the brightest star in the night sky. That is also how long Loki and Jane will be together in Vaholla. The number of Asgardian years Loki waits is the same amount of time Jane lives, just measured differently.
> 
> If you want to see all the posts that helped inspire this fic, head on over to [this tag](http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/tagged/lokabrenna%20insp) on my tumblr.


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